Harry Potter and the Garden of Intrigue
by Azjerban
Summary: Being an exploration of the differences in Mr. Potter's life pursuant to his understanding Victorian flower language at age 11. Primary Point-of-Departure: Harry has a working lightbulb in his cupboard. Features Loony!Reading!Harry, as well as Competent!Ron, GeniusResearcher!Hermione, Neville!Neville, and CharacterDevelopment!Crabbe and Goyle. Rated T.
1. Chapter 1: The Giant

Harry Potter and the Garden of Intrigue

Being an exploration of the differences in Mr. Potter's life pursuant to his understanding victorian flower language at age 11. Single Point-of-Departure: Harry has a working lightbulb in his cupboard.

Harry Potter, all related characters, and the original Harry Potter narative are properties of J. K. Rowling.

Chapter 1

The Giant

"Wake up, you useless boy!" Uncle Vernon's shout roused Harry from a rather pleasant dream about some kind of hairy wall, and the boy started scrambling for his trousers. He'd have perhaps five seconds before- BAM! Uncle Vernon started- BAM! Slamming his great meaty fist into- BAM!

"I'm up! I'm up!" called Harry, desperate for some relief from the noise. His reward was instantaneous silence from the beleaguered doorframe, only to be replaced by a more muffled rythmic pounding as Dudly started stomping down the stairs. As mornings went, it was rather tame for young Mr. Harry Potter. After the incident on Dudley's birthday, he was glad of the respite.

Scarcely a minute later, Harry was setting the table for breakfast. He'd been doing pretty much every chore around the house since they'd let him out of the cupboard last week. At least they were feeding him again. Harry hadn't gotten many full meals in the past ten years, but the past few months had left his stomach aching with hunger almost constantly. He'd been looking forward to breakfast since turning out his light the previous night. Or was it early that morning? Apart from sunrise, which he was always awake for, Harry had never been very good at telling the time. He'd be reading a book on the history of Wales, or how to boil potatoes (actually quite a useful book, he'd been allowed to cook supper for a week after reading it), or the subtleties of victorian flower language, and suddenly he'd realize that he had ten minutes to sunrise and he'd been awake the whole time. Sometimes Harry wished the light in his cupboard didn't work, so he wouldn't be short on sleep so often, but he knew that Uncle Vernon would have made sure nothing good came of extra sleep. Not to mention reading by the light of that electric bulb was pretty much his only respite (what a wonderful word, respite) from Dudley.

"Idiot boy! That's coming out of your clothing allotment," shouted Uncle Vernon suddenly. Harry realized he'd dropped one of the plates, and of course it had shattered on the linoleum floor.

"I- I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking," stammered Harry, who didn't even have a clothing allotment to begin with- all his clothes were hand-me-way-downs from Dudley, and fit about as well as a fish in a tree-

"Too right you weren't. That's your problem, you ungrateful whelp, you just don't think!" With that, Vernon boxed Harry's ears and said something about breakfast.

_He's probably telling me I don't get any breakfast_, thought Harry. _I wonder if he's realized that I can't hear him? _From the increasingly ruddy shade of Uncle Vernon's face, he probably had. Harry decided this was a great time to start weeding the back garden. "I think I should go weed the back garden," said Harry. He quickly picked up the broken shards of the plate, dropped them in the wastebasket, said "goodbye" to Aunt Petunia, and dashed out the door with his bag in tow.

Weeding the garden wasn't nearly as torturous as the Dursleys seemed to think. Harry actually quite enjoyed seeing his own hands shaping and guiding the growth of so many living things. It gave him a sense of accomplishment that he'd never had in school, and could never find inside the tacky walls of Number 4 Privet Drive. After he'd been weeding for a few hours, Harry heard the unmistakable sound of Dudley and friends coming around the house, looking for another round of Dudley And His Friends Beat Up Harry Potter. Harry managed to avoid them for a few minutes by hiding inside the refuse cans, but soon regretted it; the oily banana peels and sundry other unpleasant leavings, slowly rotting in their own little world, put him quite off his lunch. _I really hope Uncle Vernon's in a good mood by now, _thought Harry. _ I don't want to miss all my meals today_. Harry realized he was looking at a lump of soggy custard, an impossible task in the darkness, which meant that Dudley had found him out and taken the lid off the can.

Harry tried not to hurry back to the Dursleys' house, lingering at the petunias he'd been nurturing on the front walk. _Petunias mean resentment... _Harry usually interpreted these particular petunias as _your presence comforts me_, which was a better explanation for why Aunt Petunia put them on the front walk. Although, actually, she'd had Harry plant these ones. On bad days (such as today), Harry usually wondered if Aunt Petunia had ever _read_ her book on Victorian Flower Language. Some of her flower choices were incredibly insightful, but if you interpreted the tulips differently it made no sense at all. Harry had asked her about it once, but she hadn't seemed to hear him.

* * *

It was Thursday. Harry knew it was thursday because he was miserable, and he was miserable because it was thursday. Some people might think that, being trapped in a house with the Dursleys from his earliest memory, Harry should be miserable every day; they'd be wrong. Most days, especially Tuesdays, were quite tolerable. Thursdays, however, were miserable.

Harry didn't know why every Thursday turned out so poorly. It was something different every time, something completely new and unexpected and horrible, that made each Thursday a wallowing pit of misery. Maybe the circuit was blown to his closet's light, or the book he wanted to read had a big moldy splotch in it from when Dudley was five, and spilled something treacley. Once, he'd actually had his hair shaved off by Aunt Petunia. And of course the Drainpipe Incident had been a Thursday.

Today, horrid thursday that it was, had started out well enough. Bacon for breakfast, chores boring as ever, no screams of rage from Uncle Vernon or weird food for luncheon. Harry'd even dodged Dudley's gang until Aunt Petunia called them in for dinner. Well, called Dudley in for dinner, at any rate. He should have known that Thursday was only playing with him, giving him a breather so it could really wallop him later.

It was the letter that had done it, honestly. The first letter Harry'd ever had, addressed to him directly in lovely green ink, and he'd been so shocked that something so... wonderful could happen on a Thursday, he'd forgotten that Uncle Vernon was watching. Now his letter was so much ash in the fireplace, and Harry was more miserable than he'd ever been in his life. _Even thursdays aren't as bad as this_, thought Harry. He'd have gone on with eloquent insights into the nature of the universe, Karma, and some rather sophisticated theories of why his life was so wretched, but he was too busy feeling miserable to think that hard.

_How did they know I sleep in the cupboard under the stairs?_ mused Harry, as he drifted to sleep.

The next few days were a bit better. Harry had no luck trying to carefully steal his letters away, even when they started flying out of the fireplace; Uncle Vernon searched him thoroughly and held him down while Dudley and Aunt Petunia shoveled the letters into big garbage bags. Later, Uncle Vernon drove them all down to the recycling station, and dumped the whole lot of them himself as an 'act of environmental awareness'.

On the bright side, they'd moved him into the second bedroom upstairs. He had a light with a shade, a bed with an actual matress, and (for the first time ever) _shelves_. Admittedly the shelves were full of Dudley's old things, but there were a few spots that Harry could wedge a book into, to keep it from getting dusty on the floor.

Harry did rather miss the spiders, though. He'd been trying to teach them tricks, and he was pretty sure he'd gotten the big one to start making snowflake patterns with its webs.

On Monday, Uncle Vernon packed them all into the car and drove off, trying to escape the letters. Harry, of course, had to go with them. He spent most of the trip reading a book about flea circuses that Dudley had put in 'storage' four years ago, when he realized that flea circuses actually required effort. Harry hoped he'd be able to find his spiders again, and teach them something new.

* * *

Harry looked up at the massive wall of hair beside him, trying to convince himself (again!) that this was all real. The enormous man had left the Dursleys in total confusion, Dudley with his own piggy tail and Uncle Vernon with a twisted gun to match it. And that wasn't even the best part! Harry knew there was a reason he liked Tuesdays.

Hagrid, the tallest, broadest, probably most-bearded man Harry had ever met, was taking him back to London, to a secret wizard shop where he'd buy strange and magical things for the strange and magical school he'd be studying at in a few short days.

"Hagrid, er..."

"Yeh, Harry?"

"Where in London are we going?"

"Diagon alley. Only place to go, really, for what you'll be needin'."

Harry pondered that for a few minutes, as Hagrid juggled the money- the 'muggle' money- needed for the underground.

"Er, Hagrid?" said Harry, a bit confused.

"Yeh?"

"Why are we taking the underground? I thought wizards would have, I don't know, magic carpets or flying motorcycles or something."

"Keep it down, 'Arry," said Hagrid, leaning closer to keep things conspiratorial. Considering Hagrid's face was still a good three feet above Harry's ears, it didn't accomplish much. "We don't want to go attractin' too much attention out here."

Harry didn't think Hagrid was the best man for avoiding attention.

"I mean, yeh, I knew a bloke had a motorcycle like that," continued Hagrid as they boarded the compartment, "beautiful machine it was, actually rode it the night... The night I brought ye to yer uncle's house, may he never see you again." Hagrid paused for a moment to brush some old newspapers off his seat. "But I don't have one meself, they're terrible expensive. And I can't use.. you know.. " here he eyed his pink umbrella conspicuously.

_Not very low-profile there, either,_ thought Harry.

"Ter get ye back to London, even. Though I'll have to do a touch fer the gate." Hagrid shifted a bit in his seat, getting comfortable. "But don't worry, Harry, I'll get ye to Diagon alley, sure enough."

"Thanks, Hagrid."

A few hours later, Hagrid was showing Harry Diagon Alley for the first time. Harry, only a bit unnerved by the mess with that crowd of fans in the Leaky Cauldron, was entranced. Magical shops surrounded him, selling strange trinkets and gewgaws and things he didn't even have words for.

"Are all these for school supplies?"

"Nah, that'll be mostly Flourish 'n Blotts, Ollivanders, Wizard Depot an' maybe the Owlery. Diagon Alley's the place fer wizards ter trade all kinds o' things." Hagrid snorted, ran a finger past his nose, and continued. "'Course, you'll want ter stay clear o' the back ways. Lot o' strange stuff happens there." Hagrid gave Harry a dark look, as though to impress him with the seriousness of these mysterious back alleys.

Harry was impressed. "Er, right. No back-alleying. Got it."

"Good. Come on, we got ter get teh Gringotts before they close."

"What's Gringotts?" asked Harry, confused.

"Wizard bank. I got summat to take care of there, while we're gettin' your vault anyhow." Hagrid blinked for a moment, then concluded "Shouldn't a told ye that."

Harry was still confused.

* * *

Harry was no less confused after a whirlwind tour of Diagon Alley. Gringotts was full of goblins, and Hagrid had warned him not to steal from them while simultaneously trying to hide a small, dusty package that he'd apparently needed to pick up from the deepest vault in the place. Flourish and Blotts was pretty much the same as any other bookstore, aside from the books that talk to you and the _Wizards_ walking around. Madam Malkin's would probably have been the least memorable shop he'd gone to, if not for the pompous blonde kid with an odd name, an ego the size of a tree and a treeish amount of perspicacity. Harry hadn't had time to introduce himself - though he wasn't sure he'd have wanted to - because the big-headed boy had been whisked away by what Harry could only assume was the boy's mother. It was probably the only thing young master pompous could have that Harry would be jealous of, aside from a father. _Of course the overpriveleged twit would have one of those, too_, thought Harry despondently, contemplating the invariable injustice of the world. He tried to ponder the relation between wealth and thick-headedness, and the corresponding correlation between poverty and good-naturedness until his robes were fitted, but didn't get any real insights.

After the perplexing encounter at Madam Malkin's, Hagrid and Harry walked into one of the more well-lit of the previously forbidden alleyways, to find Wizard Depot. Harry was almost as entranced by the interior of this one store as he had been by the storefronts in the main stretch of Diagon Alley. Wizard Depot was full of all kinds of bulk wizarding supplies and safety equipment, from dragonhide gloves to self-pushing spades, and Harry kept asking Hagrid questions about all the different kinds of cauldrons for almost ten minutes before they'd found an employee to help out.

Then there was the Owlery, where (after a few mind-twisting moments of indecision) he'd bought Iris. Harry, beaming at his snowy new friend, thought _I have a message for you_ was a perfect name for a mail-carrying pet. He'd been distracted more than once by an apothecary, racing broom displays, wizard's toy shoppe, and of course the magical florist (_Greta's Greenery_, half-off on Betwixting Blooms today only!), but had had to settle for window-shopping on such nonessential stops.

"Just one stop left, Harry," said Hagrid. "Ollivander's. Time ter get your wand."

Harry had been waiting for this moment all day, all week, maybe even his entire life. He was far too excited to see Hagrid's sadness, that their reunion would soon be at an end.

"Holly and Phoenix feather. Very interesting, very interesting..."

"Er, why is it interesting? Does it mean something?" Harry couldn't quite remember what holly flowers meant, and he was pretty sure the wood had a different meaning than the flowers anyways, but Mr. Ollivander seemed to be thinking on different lines entirely.

"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single one." Ollivander leaned in uncomfortably close to Harry, so close that Harry could see his own nervous face reflected in the old man's pale eyes. "And that wand's brother," imparted Ollivander, still inching closer, "why, its brother gave you that scar..."

Harry gulped, feeling that this was a bit too much Strange Destiny and a bit too little Odd Coincidence for comfort. He also felt that Mr. Ollivander was as creepy as a caterpillar on a fresh loaf of bread, but that was an entirely unrelated variety of creepiness.

"I, um, I," stammered Harry.

"A'right, Ollivander, let 'im go," said Hagrid, looking in from the entrance to the dusty wand shop. "Harry 'ere's had a long day, needs 'is sleep."

Harry had felt more gratitude towards Hagrid before, especially when they'd talked about Harry's parents, but not by much. Once the wand was safely paid for - _my own wand, it works, it's real, I'm really a wizard!_ - Harry and Hagrid headed back to the underground. Harry would be waiting at the Dursleys' until September 1st, much to his dissapointment. And Hagrid had told him not to use magic until he got on the train, which made Harry wonder why he'd gotten his wand today.. not that he wasn't grateful.

"Thanks again, Hagrid," said Harry, a bit choked up, when they reached the station. He'd been surprised at how quickly he'd bonded with the huge man, but he didn't want to leave yet. Especially not to go back to the Dursleys.

"Ah, don' get all weepy on me, Harry. Ye'll see me again soon enough, anyhow." Hagrid pulled out a large, often-used handkerchief from one of his many pockets and started wiping the corners of his eyes with it. "'Sides, I can't keep from joinin' yeh, if yer gonna get like that."

It took a few more minutes to finish saying goodbye.


	2. Chapter 2: The Terms

Harry Potter and the Garden of Intrigue

Being an exploration of the differences in Mr. Potter's life pursuant to his understanding victorian flower language at age 11. Single Point-of-Departure: Harry has a working lightbulb in his cupboard.

Harry Potter, all related characters, and the original Harry Potter narative are properties of J. K. Rowling.

Chapter 2

The Terms

The Dursleys were already back by the time Harry walked to the front door. He'd knocked, just to be polite; Harry didn't really feel like he lived there at the best of times, but now - at last - he had something else to hold on to. So, feeling like a visitor, Harry knocked on the door.

He was a bit surprised when Aunt Petunia opened it. Honestly, Harry'd thought that the Dursleys would bar him from the house at least until he promised not to do magic on them. "I promise not to do magic on you," he told Aunt Petunia, "at least as long as I'm treated like a human being."

Aunt Petunia just motioned him inside, glancing furtively out at the street as though afraid passersby would be spying on her. Harry obliged by slipping in through the doorway.

"Thanks, Aunt Petunia."

Aunt Petunia stared at Harry as though he was a rare sort of poisonous fish, rather than a relatively harmless eleven-year-old boy. She also seemed a bit disturbed by Iris, which reminded Harry that introductions were in order. "Oh, right. Aunt Petunia, this is Iris. She's an owl. Iris," Harry turned to his familiar. "This is Aunt Petunia. Don't bother her, she doesn't have any owl treats." Harry turned back to his aunt, feeling a bit manic as he plastered a grin on his face. "She's mad about owl treats, you know. And she-"

"WHAT is that BOY doing back here?"

"Hello, Uncle Vernon," said Harry, turning towards his purple-faced uncle. "I've just promised Aunt Petunia that I won't use any magic on her so long as I'm treated like a human being," Harry felt as though his spine would probably be more comfortable in a big freezer than inside his neck, what with all the frozen tingles of Doom that Uncle Vernon's glare was inspiring, "and I'd like to offer you the same terms."

Uncle Vernon's face somehow managed to achieve new heights of purpleness. His head took on a decidedly sideways tilt. "You.. I.. Bird.. Terms?" he choked out, his left eye twitching faster than his fist.

Harry _really_ didn't want to be in the same room with Uncle Walking Monolith of Rage Vernon, but he'd already kicked the tiger and running would only make it worse. "Er, yes. You don't beat me, I don't magic you." Harry felt some twitches building up in his own right eye, out of fear and sympathetic eye-twitchiness. "And the same for my owl."

"How, how, you.. DARE.. accept!" steamed Uncle Vernon, whose right eye had also started twitching. His neck seemed to be developing a spiral.

"You accept? Great!" Harry exhaled in relief, his shoulders sagging from suddenly released tension. He slid sideways towards the stairs, trunk in tow, before Vernon could unclench himself enough to object. "I'll be hiding, er, staying in my room, out of your way, now." Harry started vaulting up the stairs, half-expecting Uncle Vernon to throw a chair at the back of his head before he reached the top.

Safely inside his room at the top of the stairs, Harry thought he heard Aunt Petunia's voice from below, talking to Uncle Vernon, though he couldn't make out the words.

* * *

Harry had to go through a similar encounter with Dudley later that day, although it involved a lot less eye-twitching and fist-clenching, and Harry didn't feel as though Dudley were two blinks from clobbering him, which was a nice change. Dudley seemed preoccupied with something, and kept shifting about in his chair as though it were full of lumps - which it wasnt, Harry knew, because he'd had to reupholster that chair two months ago.

It didn't occur to Harry until the next day that Dudley might still have the curly tail Hagrid had grown him, but he had a long, very quiet laugh about it all the same.

For the next several days Harry kept himself in his room as much as possible, especially on Thursday. Harry didn't even go down for meals on Thursday, because he knew that if he so much as opened the door he'd have another horrible Thursday of horribleness. Harry really didn't want to have his wand break, or lose an eye, or get Iris killed, especially before he even got to Hogwarts. Surprisingly, the only horrible thing that happened that Thursday was that Iris was sick on Harry's arm, which wasn't horrible at all considering Harry was wearing one of Dudley's hand-me-overs that was still five sizes too wide. Harry just pitched the whole thing in the garbage bin, vowing to take it out the next morning.

* * *

On Friday, Harry woke up early. He'd forgotten to ask Uncle Vernon for a ride to King's Cross on Wednesday; actually he'd been trying to stay out of the way, per his promise, and Uncle Vernon still seemed a bit twitchy. So, today, Harry planned to make breakfast. He hoped a nice bacony non-magical breakfast would improve Uncle Vernon's mood, given how Uncle Vernon loved bacon. By the time Harry got downstairs, however, Aunt Petunia was already there, cleaning the kitchen and muttering to herself under her breath.

"Um, good morning, Aunt Petunia." Harry blinked; hadn't Aunt Petunia been facing away from him? And wasn't that the cleaver from the drawer on the other side of the kitchen? "Are you alright?"

"Ah..." Aunt Petunia dropped the cleaver, then skittered back as it clattered on the floor. "Just... just fine, Harry. Just- fine." She knelt down, fetched the cleaver, and straightened back up, all without taking her eyes off of Harry.

Harry smiled; he hoped it was friendly-looking. "Great. Great. Er, I was going to make some bacon for breakfast today, for everybody, is that alright?" Harry was very carefully not moving towards Aunt Petunia. As far as he was concerned, she was scarier than Uncle Vernon today.

"Bacon? Oh, yes, there's a package in the refrigerator. You just startled me. Go ahead." She didn't move either, and the hand that held the cleaver was trembling a little.

"Thanks!" said Harry, walking towards the refrigerator. He started sweating a little, turning away from Aunt Petunia. _There's the bacon_. Harry took it, went to the counter, and washed his hands. A look back at Aunt Petunia showed that the cleaver had vanished. _I wonder where it went. _

Aunt Petunia was still staring at him when he finished separating the bacon. "Er," said Harry. "Can I help with something else?"

"No, no, that's fine. You just make the bacon, and I'll take care of everything else. That's fine." She'd found a pot, and had somehow started mixing up some mush. Harry had always really liked Aunt Petunia's cooking, even though he didn't usually get much of it. Somehow, the flavor had always had a surprising depth.

* * *

Later, in his room, Harry fed half of his breakfast to Iris. She seemed especially appreciative of the bacon; Harry was not surprised. Everybody likes bacon.

Breakfast had gone surprisingly well, and Harry was quite surprised at Uncle Vernon's cool composure. When Harry had asked for a ride to King's Cross, Uncle Vernon had simply grunted, then said "Right, have to go up that way tomorrow at any rate." Aunt Petunia hadn't said anything at all. She'd looked rather pale, though.

It had been difficult for Harry to avoid snortling when he recalled the reason for the Dursley's impending trip to that part of London, and he'd mumbled a platitude of gratitude, scooped up his remaining bacon, and scurried upstairs to laugh into his pillow again.

It occurred to Harry, as he watched Iris munch on the grist and gristle of the bacon, that he'd been neglecting his spiders. He was certain they'd be sad without him, and of course Aunt Petunia would probably clean his cupboard - his old cubpoard - while he was away at Hogwarts. Harry decided that he'd better go fetch the little mischief-makers before something unpleasant happened to them. He started looking through the contents of his trunk (_Bigger on the Inside_, Harry'd thought in the store, _and just the right shade of blue!) _for a good container to transport them in.

A few hours later, Harry had successfully stored his spiders in an old jam jar, with the lid off so they could go exploring. The window was already open for Iris, and Harry was sure his spiders could catch more bugs outside than they ever had inside. As the spiders started crawling towards the window, Harry realized that Iris hadn't met them yet.

"Iris, these are the spiders from my cupboard. Spiders, Iris." Iris was staring at Harry as though he'd grown an extra pair of ears. "Come on, Iris, they're not as bad as all that. This one's Skipper, and the one with the hourglass is Madam Pinch, I've never been able to keep her children's names straight. And the really hairy one is Back Off You."

Iris was still looking at him as though he was some strange breed of coat hanger.

"Look, I know what you're thinking, but there's plenty of bugs for all of you out there. And no," said Harry, "I am not going to make you share a cage. Stop looking at me like that."

Iris started staring at the spiders, instead.

"No, no, don't look at them like that either! They're good friends of mine, not snacks!" Harry spread his arms out, standing between Iris and the spiders. "No hunting my friends."

Iris seemed to consider this for a moment, then started preening as if hunting spiders had been the furthest thing from her mind since the word go.

"Alright then," said Harry, and turned to see how the spiders were doing. As it turned out, they were doing about three kilometers an hour straight out the window. Harry sighed, hoping they'd be back by morning, and started packing up his things for the drive the next morning.

After dinner that evening, Harry volunteered to help Aunt Petunia with the washing up. He was rather surprised at her response; she'd accepted the offer, but seemed to be trembling something fierce the entire time. Harry, remembering the cleaver from that morning, tried to keep a fair distance between himself and Aunt Petunia.

After washing up, which passed without any notable incidents, Harry decided that he'd better ask Aunt Petunia about the book now, before it was too late and he was on the train to Hogwarts.

Harry thought Uncle Vernon had to be in a good mood, he'd joked at harry about taking a train to a wizard's school over supper. Harry hadn't been able to think of anything clever to say at all, and had been a bit grumpy about it. Aunt Petunia's mood seemed to be deteriorating at every turn, though, and Harry was feeling a bit nervous.

_No help for it_, thought Harry, _It's now or never._ He cleared his throat. Aunt petunia didn't jump, which was relieving. She just turned towards him, slowly, as if she didn't have the energy to move any faster.

"Er, Aunt Petunia? Are you alright?"

Aunt Petunia blinked, slowly. "Oh, Harry. No - yes, I'm just fine."

Harry didn't believe her. Still, she wasn't holding a cleaver or screaming. "That's good. I was wondering, um, there's a book that I'd like to borrow while I'm gone, um, it's the one about the Victorian Flower language," Harry gulped, his nerves starting to fray against the sheer unmoving fatigue he saw in Aunt Petunia's face, "and I thought it might be interesting to see if any of the meanings in there are, er, well, if they match."

Aunt Petunia certainly looked more like _resentment_ than _your presence comforts me_, but she didn't seem to have decided yet. Or, maybe she just didn't believe that Harry would actually ask for something twice in the same day.

"I mean, I've looked through it before, and well, I don't remember what most of the words mean, but it was really interesting. And I've always liked your cooking." Harry didn't know why he'd said that. It didn't fit with anything else he'd said, and it wasn't like Aunt Petunia was asking him for anything, and probably she'd think he was trying to butter her up so she'd say yes before she had a chance to think about it, and she still wasn't moving.

Aunt Petunia blinked again, slower than before. Then she blinked rather quickly. "You do?"

"Well," said Harry, noticing some color returning to Aunt Petunia's cheeks, "yes. I mean, I don't get much of it, but I've never tasted anything that came from your kitchen and been sad about it."

Aunt Petunia looked better than she'd done since before Thursday. "Well, anybody who likes good cooking has to have a soul, at least." Harry was nonplussed - she'd thought he didn't have a soul? "So I'll let you take that book with you. Just bring it back, at the end of the year." Aunt Petunia paused for a moment, trying to scrub the roasting pan she'd used for Dudley's last day with a tail, and amended "Unless it gets any... You know... If that happens, don't bring it back to this house." With that, Aunt Petunia seemed to have spent her sudden resurgence of vitality, and stopped talking.

Harry agreed to bring the book back in absolutely the same condition he'd first found it in, with absolutely no mumbo-jumbo or weird things. Aunt Petunia seemed satisfied.

* * *

Harry had expected to see Hagrid at King's Cross, but for some reason the massive man was nowhere in sight. _Which mean's he's not here_, thought Harry, remembering Hagrid's unstealthy tendencies. _Now how do I find platform Nine and Three-Quarters?_

The Dursleys seemed to be thinking on the same lines, because Uncle Vernon - not even shutting the engine off as Harry quickly pulled his trunk, Iris, and the jar of spiders (now with lid) out of the car - said "Well, there you are! Platform nine, Platform ten, nothing between them. Ha!" Harry was about to reply, but Uncle Vernon chose that moment to reveal the final step of his sinister and many-layered plot: driving off and leaving Harry standing at King's Cross station all alone. He could still hear Uncle Vernon laughing, even at this distance. Harry thought he could hear Dudley and Aunt Petunia laughing, too, but that might have been his imagination.

Harry started walking towards Platform Nine, on the grounds that Platform Nine and Three-Quarters would have to be somewhere in the vicinity. He was planning to work his way over to Platform Ten, although hopefully he'd find the train to Hogwarts before he reached Platform Ten. Harry looked around for Hagrid again, not very hopeful but still very desperate. _Come on, come on, there's got to be somebody here! _

"-Packed with Muggles, of course-"

Harry's head did a shocking impression of Iris, swiveling almost backwards to look for the person who had uttered that wonderful, insulting term.


	3. Chapter 3: The Train

Harry Potter and the Garden of Intrigue

Being an exploration of the differences in Mr. Potter's life pursuant to his understanding victorian flower language at age 11. Single Point-of-Departure: Harry has a working lightbulb in his cupboard.

Harry Potter, all related characters, and the original Harry Potter narative are properties of J. K. Rowling.

Chapter 3

The Train

"Not to worry," said the red-haired matriarch. "All you have to do is walk straight at the barrier between platforms nine and ten. Don't stop and don't be scared you'll crash into it, that's very important. Best do it at a bit of a run if you're nervous. Go on, go now before Ron."

"Er - Okay," Harry complied, wondering why it mattered whether you were scared or not. "Thanks." He tried to ignore the sounds of the station as he faced the barrier. People walking, talking, shouting, hustling and bustling; great engines chugging and churning along the tracks, screeching as they laid on the brakes; rattling and banging and clanging and crunching from bags and boxes and bread. The little girl from that kind maternal person's family complaining about not getting into Hogwarts for another year. Harry decided he wasn't having any success shutting out the noise of the station.

Fortunately, by the time he'd reached that decision, Harry had already passed through the barrier. The sight of the legendary (although he hadn't heard any legends) hidden Platform Nine and Three-Quarters was... Well, it looked just like any other platform at King's Cross, except for the scarlet steam engine. And, yes, the preponderance of Wizarding folk. Harry saw a few Muggles here and there, usually huddling together out of nervousness or parental duty. It took him a few seconds to realize why there were any Muggles at the wizards' train station at all, but then he realized they must be there to see off their magical children. _Like me, _thought Harry, _except that I didn't know _I_ was a wizard because my Aunt and Uncle are afraid of magic_.

After half a second of ruminating, Harry heard someone running up behind him - and narrowly avoided a collision with the friendly woman's son, who had been next in line to rush the barrier.

"Sorry, sorry, I was just, um, lost in thought," stammered Harry. The red-haired boy seemed caught between indignation and apology, so Harry continued, "I'm Harry," said Harry, "we should probably get moving so this doesn't become a pile-up..."

"Yeah, I guess so," said the mysteriously nameless lad. "Don't want Mum to catch up too quick. This your first time here?"

Harry checked his pocket to make sure the jar of spiders hadn't gotten opened - you can never be too careful, with spiders - and tried to calm Iris down with a few owl treats. "Well, yes. Um, do we have to check in or anything, or do we just get on the train?"

Mr. Crimson, as Harry had decided to call him, rolled his eyes. "You haven't got _any _older brothers, have you?" Harry shook a negative. "They check who's on the train with magic or something, you don't have to sign anything."

"Oh," muttered Harry. _Of course a wizard's school would do everything with magic._ "Um, d'you mind if-"

Mr. Crimson never got to find out what he might or might not mind, as at that very moment his brothers and mother converged upon him from all sides. The resulting scuffle of a last-minute spit bath, indian burn, and something complicated involving a small yellow feather-duster and a slide rule being wielded by what looked like Mr. Crimson's twin brothers, Mr. Fire and Mr. Feuer, threw it completely from Harry's mind.

"Ah, good you've made it as well," said the woman whom Harry would always think of as abundantly mothering. "Fred, George, give them a hand with their trunks. You know how the train stairs are for first-years."

"_Mom!_ I can handle my own trunk!" protested Mr. Crimson. Harry was sure he'd heard Mr. Crimson's real name at some point in the past five minutes, but for some reason (Wizards! Magic train!) it just kept slipping his mind.

"Of course, dear," replied his mother, automatically. "Now, won't you introduce us to your new friend?"

Mr. Crimson's face momentarily vouchsafed his Potter-appointed pseudonym, but after a brief look of longsuffering, he proved himself superior in name-retention by saying "This is Harry, he doesn't have any older brothers."

During this introduction, Fred or George (Harry despaired at that moment of ever remembering which was which, which was even worse because they were the only people he'd met that day whose names he knew) took off with Mr. Crimson's trunk. Harry was just in time to see the other twin, in a typical show of twinly coordination, running towards the train with Harry's trunk in tow.

"Er, Mr. Crimson," said Harry, wishing once again that he'd paid more attention to the names, "I think your brothers just ran off with our trunks."

"They did wh- oh, I'll get you for that!" screamed the affronted son at his departing brothers. Then he turned to Harry with a quizzical look. "Wait, what? Who's Mr. Crimson?"

Harry's face did an impersonation. "Well, I didn't catch your name, so I started thinking of you as Mr. Crimson in my head..." Mr. Crimson didn't seem particularly offended by this, and certainly hadn't started shading towards Uncle Vernon's usual purplish rage, so Harry continued. "I mean, I was going to ask, but then your family caught up and, well, here we are."

Mr. Possibly Crimson stared at Harry for a few seconds. "Huh." He turned to his mother. "Harry and I are going to get on the train now, Mom. I'll try to keep Fred and George from going bonkers." He turned back to Harry, who was starting to stew in the fetid justice of anticipatory shame. "Y'know, I rather like the name Mr. Crimson," preened Mr. Definitely Crimson. "Sounds kinda posh."

"Alright, Ron," said his mother, "have a good time at Hogwarts. Don't overdo it trying to stop the twins, either, you know how they are."

"Who knows how we are?"

"Yeah, mum, who knows how we are? Aside from you, of course, but then that's just life." The twins had returned, without the trunks. Their mother sighed, very quietly, then got them both by the ears in a presumably iron grip.

"I'm plenty of knowing for the both of you, boys, and don't you forget it! I don't want to hear of any shenanigans from you this year. No exploding hallways, no upside-down Observatory tower, absolutely _no _dragons in the Slytherin common room."

"Wait, we never put-"

"Good idea, though, now you mention it-"

Mrs. Extremely Motherly Crimson twisted their ears.

"AAAAGH!"

"AAAAHH!"

Apparently satisfied with her distribution of corporeal punishment, she dropped them. "Have a good year, boys," she smiled, and picked them back up to their feet again. While they were receiving the post-beat-down spit baths and trying - futilely - to escape, Mr. Crimson said a few goodbyes to the little girl - Ginny, he called her - whom Harry hadn't even noticed in the prior confusion. Harry had just been staring at the show.

Harry sidled up to Mr. Crimson, tapped him on the arm, and said "dragons?"

"I'm pretty sure Mom made that one up, I mean, dragons are way too dangerous for Fred and George to mess with." He thought for a moment, then revised: "I mean, so far. Charlie might have done it when he was at Hogwarts, though."

"Charlie?"

"Oh, right, he's one of my other brothers. There's Fred and George, you've met them, and Percy's a prefect this year; Charlie and Bill have graduated already, so you probably won't meet them unless Mom decides to make you an honorary Weasley for some inane reason."

Harry stared at Mr. Crimson for a few seconds. "You have _five_ older brothers? And a sister?"

"Well, Ginny's younger than I am, but yeah. I do." Mr. Crimson swelled with pride.

Harry shook his head, trying to clear all the confusion out so he'd have room for the awe. "Cousins?"

Mr. Crimson had the decency to pause for that one. "I dunno how many cousins I've got, I mean, loads, probably. There's plenty of uncles and aunts at least."

"I've only got the one uncle and aunt," said Harry. "They're pretty awful. And no brothers or sisters." The Weasleys behind them finally escaped their mother, and took Mr. Ron Crimson Weasley and Harry by the arms as they sprinted for the train.

"Sorry about this, Ron-"

"-and friend-"

"-but we've got no chance to survive if we stick around here."

"Plus, we figure you'll want to know what we did with your trunks."

Harry did indeed want to know what they'd done with his trunk, but Ron the Crimson beat him to it.

"What did you do?" squeaked Ron.

"Ron, Ron, all in good time-"

"-but introductions are in order."

They put Harry and Ron down, and Harry was surprised to discover that the twins had carried them all the way into the train.

"Alright, we'll start. I'm Fred, and this is George."

Harry looked at them suspiciously, since they'd spoken in unison. "Could you repeat that please, Fred?"

"Certainly," said both twins. "I'm Fred, and this is George."

"Come off it," growled Ron. "Harry, this is Fred. You can tell it's him because he's a bloody prankster. The other bloody prankster is George."

"Hold a moment, Fred," said Fred, "I think he's on to us."

"Nah, can't be," replied George. "You're imagining things, Fred."

Harry coughed. "I'm Harry. Pleased to meet you, Fred and George." They bowed. "I think I'm getting a phobia of meeting just one of you and not remembering which name to use. Is there a curse?"

Fred and Also Fred gave each other a That's-A-Brilliant-Idea-Let's-Run-With-It look. Ron gave Harry a Please-Stop-Talking-Now look, and said "no, there's no curse."

"Well that's a relief," said Harry. "So, Fred and George, can you lead us to our trunks? I don't want the jar of spiders in my pocket to break open before I get them their dinner, I mean, you know how black widows can get." Harry gave the twins an I'm-Entirely-Innocent-of-All-Wrongdoing-But-I-Just-Might-Kill-You look, while Ron fell over against the compartment wall.

The twins, tiring of the Look Exchange Game, capitulated. "Right this way, Mr. Spider."

"Wait, George," said the twin Harry had thought was actually George. "d'you think?"

"What? No, it couldn't be."

"But if it is?"

"Well, let's ask him." They turned to Harry again. "Are you?"

"Crazy?" asked Harry. "That's right!"

"Well, yes, but not quite what we had in mind."

"We really wanted to know-"

"Considering that you might be-"

"Although since it's you you might not know you are-"

"So we're just checking, better safe than spiders you know-"

"Get on with it!" shouted Harry, who was getting rather fed up with the suspense.

"D'you reckon you're Harry Potter?"

"Oh, well, yes," said Harry. "I mean, I am."

"Cor, you were right, George," said Fred. "Your trunks are right behind you, Masters Potter and Crimson. Mind the blue powder, though, it'll make your hair grow into the wall if you sit still too long."

Ron groaned.

After feeding Iris again, and assuring her that she was indeed a brave owl, Harry and Ron sat on opposite sides of the compartment. For some reason, Mr. Crimson seemed rather pale.

"Er, are you all right, Mr. Crimson?"

Ron jumped a bit, then eyed Harry's robes. "D'you really have a jar of spiders in your pocket?" From the look on Ron's face, Harry guessed that Mr. Crimson was hoping it had been another prank. Harry sighed.

"Yes, I really do. I mean, I couldn't just leave them behind. Aunt Petunia would've had them killed for being spiders on a sunny day."

Ron looked as though he'd have passed that sentence in the middle of a hurricane. "I hate spiders."

"Oh." Harry felt a little sad at that, but it wasn't much of a surprise. He knew most people he met would at the very least casually dislike spiders, and the only other person he'd even heard of that would consider calling a spider 'friend' was Hagrid. "Well, I'll keep them in their jar, or I'll set them free outside somewhere, if that's better." Harry started pulling the jar out of his pocket. "They're really-"

"No! Don't bring them out!" shrieked Ron.

"I'm going to have to dock you manliness points for that, Mr. Crimson," rebuked harry. "Just as soon as my ears start working again." He put the jar back into his pocket. "Why d'you hate spiders?"

"Why don't _you_ hate spiders?"

"I..." Harry had to think about that one for a moment. "Well, I grew up in a cupboard under the stairs in my Aunt and Uncle's house, and there were always a few spiders in there. After a while, I started giving the ones I'd seen a lot nicknames, and now I think of them kind of like friends." Harry paused, considering how weird that had to sound. _Really, really weird, probably._ "I mean, until about a week ago I didn't know I was a wizard, I didn't have any real friends, so... I guess I just tried to find friends wherever I could."

Ron still looked apprehensive, but he'd picked up a measure of sympathy for the Boy who Lived with Spiders. "Well, you're definitely right about being crazy."

"Thanks."

Harry had bought a week's worth of Wizard's sweets from the trolley and shared them with Ron, Ron had shown him how to eat Licorice Snaps and why Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans were worth eating, and Harry had put his jar of spiders inside his trunk (still with the lid on) so Ron wouldn't freak out every five minutes.

"I think you should send them to the Forbidden Forest when we get to Hogwarts," said Ron around a mouthful of Zephyr Drops. "They'd fit right in with all the giant man-eating plants and all."

"Actually, I was going to let Hagrid have them." Harry picked up another Moon Cookie (Your Hunger will Wane!) "He seemed okay with the idea of spiders when I met him, and he could even teach them some new tricks."

"Okay, whatever, enough about the jar!" Ron spat his last Zephyr Drop out the window, where it burst open with a satisfying _Whizzz_. "What teams do you follow?"

"Er," said Harry, who didn't even know how many balls there were in most sports. "Which sport?"

"Which- What do you mean, which sport? Quidditch!" Ron suddenly looked about ten times more alive than Harry had ever seen him.

"I don't think I've heard of that one, Mr. Crimson. Sorry." Harry braced himself for the storm of sports-fueled monologue he knew would follow.

"Really? Well, just you wait, it's the best game in the world-"

_Knew it_, thought Harry, before the sports-talk overwhelmed him.


	4. Chapter 4: The Castle

Harry Potter and the Garden of Intrigue

Being an exploration of the differences in Mr. Potter's life pursuant to his understanding victorian flower language at age 11. Single Point-of-Departure: Harry has a working lightbulb in his cupboard.

Harry Potter, all related characters, and the original Harry Potter narative are properties of J. K. Rowling.

Chapter 4

The Castle

Ron was still talking about Quidditch.

There'd been a boy that looked a lot like Harry, except with better vision, and Ron was still talking about Quidditch.

A brown-haired witch had shown up trying to find the first boy's missing toad. Ron was still talking about Quidditch.

They'd tried to turn Ron's pet rat yellow. It didn't work, and Hermawhatsit's precocious talent for being annoying was, as far as Harry could tell, far stronger than her talent for being helpful. Harry suggested that maybe if they didn't call Scabbers a _stupid_ rat, the spell might work. At least Ron wasn't talking about Quidditch at the moment.

"Well, I'll try it, but if he explodes you owe me a new rat." Ron readied his wand for another try at rat recoloring.

_Sunshine, Daisies, Butter Mellow_

_Turn this rat called Scabbers Yellow_

There was a _pop_ and a smell like burnt bacon, and Scabbers turned a most unpleasant shade of dirty yellow. Ron smiled, and started talking about Quidditch again.

The girl didn't stick around much longer after that.

"Good luck finding your toad, uh, Neville," called Harry, determined to learn more than two people's names today.

Neville gave a hopeless, lopsided smile. "Thanks," he said as he followed Hermageddon out of the compartment.

Ron was still talking about Quidditch.

"Wait, Ron, what?" Harry was sure he hadn't heard that last rule correctly.

Ron, obliging his new friend, repeated the rule. "Catching the Snitch is worth a hundred and fifty points, and ends the game."

Harry stared at him.

"What?"

"How much are the quabbles worth?"

Ron rolled his eyes. "The _Quaffle_ is worth ten points every time it goes through a ring. Honestly, were you even paying attention?"

"Well, there was that whole business with Neville and Hermshername visiting earlier, I may have forgotten some of the finer points..."

"That was five minutes ago!"

"Right. Anyway! The Quaffle is worth ten points every time, right? So... is anything ever worth less than ten points?"

Ron blinked. "Er... I think there's a penalty rule that gets you three points," he said, looking a bit nonplussed.

Harry was a bit confused by his own interest in the rules for a sport, but it was too late to feign disinterest now. "How many times does a team usually score with the quaffle before they catch the Snitch?"

Ron didn't hesitate to answer. "Depends on the team they're up against, most times, but the Cannons usually get five or six... Hogwarts teams have a better defensive game the past few years, especially Gryffindor with Wood as the Keeper, so most teams there only get one or two goals. Of course," Ron continued, getting back in the stride of his unlimited Quidditch banter, "it all really depends on how soon they catch the Snitch."

"Right, because that's always the end of the game even if it's only been about two seconds," interrupted Harry.

"Right," agreed Ron. "I've heard of matches where it took days to catch the Snitch, too, they had to keep getting replacement players because they got so tired."

Harry stared at him.

"Er, Harry, you're staring again."

"What? Oh, sorry." Harry ran a hand through his hair, trying to figure out what seemed so wrong about Quidditch. "So do they ever have another game if the Snitch gets caught in the first three seconds? I mean, is there a rule about the game having to keep going for at least a minute, or something like that?"

Ron had to think about that one. "Er... No, not that I've heard of."

Harry was rather surprised about that, but there was still something else that was bothering him. "Ron, not counting the Snitch, what's the biggest difference in points that you've ever heard of?"

"1944, Blonowski versus Himmeldorf. Not counting the snitch, Himmeldorf's team had a 360 point lead."

Harry stared at him.

"Harry," Ron began, but Harry cut him off.

"I know, I know, staring, sorry. That's a lot of points." Harry was actually pretty surprised that somebody could be 30 goals ahead in a game with such detailed rules.

"Well, Blonowski was playing all by himself against a team of twelve people..."

"Ron!" Harry flung his arms up in frustration. "What's the score usually like with the Cannons?"

"Oh, they've been a bit down this year, so it's not like this is the usual," Ron began, "but this season they're usually two or three goals behind when the Snitch gets caught."

Harry began to believe that he'd found the problem with Quidditch. "So, they're doing badly this year and they still only wind up a few goals behind?"

"Yep."

"And really good teams usually don't get more than five or six goals ahead?"

"Er, what are you aiming at, Harry?"

"Why is the Snitch worth so much? It doesn't make sense!" Harry was sure he'd found it, but Ron looked like he'd heard this line before and had a perfect retort all ready. Naturally, that was the moment somebody else paid their compartment a visit.

"They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment. So it's you, is it?" The boy from the robe shop was flanked by two distinguished gentlemen of Harry's age who appeared to have gone to kindergarten in Painville.

Harry stared. _Wow, he's got goons! This is like a mobster movie, or meeting the Don of the Mafia, or _"Um, yeah, that's me," said Harry.

"No need to ask who _that_ is," continued the boy. Harry was sure he'd heard this fellow's name before, but all he could remember was that it sounded like a movie villain. "Everybody knows that the-"

"Excuse me, but I've forgotten your name," interjected Harry. "Sorry. You know me, of course, and to my left is the illustrious Mr. Crimson of whom legend speaks. Might I ask for introductions all around?"

The goons looked as though they'd just seen a police box materialize out of thin air, and Movie Villain Name just stood there for a few seconds. Inside his skull, Movie Villain Name's brain reoriented itself to the new order of reality- the one in which people forgot who he was and dared to interrupt him.

"Certainly, Harry," he said in a much smoother voice than before. He'd pasted a smile onto his formerly cliche face of smug superiority, Harry noted. "My name is Draco Malfoy, and these," he indicated the goons as he introduced them, "are my associates Mr. Gregory Goyle and Mr. Vincent Crabbe. We are pleased to make your acquaintaince."

Ron didn't seem very impressed with Draco's belated introduction. In fact, Harry saw Ron making a face out of the corner of his eye.

"The pleasure's all ours, I'm sure," offered Harry. "I haven't any head for names, though, so I hope Greg and Vincent will forgive me if I call them Mr. Loom and Mr. Stalk in the future."

Ron choked on a guffaw at that.

"What?"

"Well, Greg looks like he's stalking something, and Vincent keeps trying to loom... actually, from where I'm sitting, it looks like pretty decent looming. Keep up the good work, Mr. Loom," cheered Harry.

Ron snorted as another laugh escaped through his nose.

"Shut up, Crimson, you look like a Weasley," spat Draco, losing his cool.

Ron preened. "I ought to, my Mum's one. Harry just calls me Mr. Crimson because he's a looney."

Draco stared at Harry.

Harry gestured to Ron. "Mr. Ron Crimson Weasley Crimson Crimson. Best known for his encyclopedic knowledge of wizarding sports and his ability to cast vanishing spells on candy. Rumored to be the second coming of Bruce."

Draco stared at Harry. His goons were starting to grin.

"Who's Bruce?" asked Ron.

"Dunno, some guy," replied Harry, chuckling. "Nice to meet you, Draco. Have a seat, we were talking about Quidditch."

Ron didn't look too keen on sharing a compartment with Draco Oily Speech Malfoy, buth Draco looked about as leery of Harry as Ron felt about Draco, and Ron didn't want to pass up a chance to make a Malfoy uncomfortable. "Yeah," he said, "Harry hasn't even _heard_ of Quidditch until today."

Draco stared at Harry. "What do you take me for, Potter? You want me to share a compartment with a Weasley?"

"Come on, it'll be fun. We've still got half a pile of snacks to go through, and I'm sure you've got something to talk about that isn't Quidditch. Not that I don't like Quidditch, Ron, but seriously we haven't talked about _anything else_ since we sat down."

Draco stared at Harry. "I'm not interested in sweets, Potter."

Harry stared at Draco. "Wanna be friends?" Harry had decided that friends were the best thing in the world, especially when they shared a language. He was starting to suspect that the Madam Pinch and Back Off You were only tolerating him because he'd saved their lives a few times.

Draco stared at Harry. "I - well, yes." He turned to his goons, who instantly stopped grinning. "Crabbe, Goyle, make sure Weasley doesn't touch me." Draco sat down next to Harry, preparing to start a series of subtle insults that would result in Ron making a fool of himself and getting thrown out of the compartment.

"Mr. Malfoy, Sir, we'd like to request that you refer to us by our professional monikers from this point forward."

Draco stared at Goyle. Harry and Ron did, too, which was a nice change of pace.

"What?"

Goyle cleared his throat, and clarified. "We have mutually agreed that we want to be called Mr. Loom and Mr. Stalker, until otherwise noted. Mr. Loom will remind you if you forget."

Harry and Ron stared at each other, then turned to the goons again in astonishment.

"But those names are ridiculous! My father will never approve of such drivel!"

Harry leaned closer to Draco. "They've unionized, Draco. There's nothing you can do."

Draco narrowed his eyes at Harry. "What do you mean 'unionized', Potter?"

"They're teaming up to make you do what they want, but they still work for you. It's weird."

"Alright, fine, you can have your stupid new names," agreed Draco. "But when we're around Father, you'll answer to Crabbe and Goyle. That's final!"

"Agreed." The goon formerly known as Goyle took his seat next to Ron, while Mr. Loom just kept looming next to the door.

Ron seemed a bit confused by the whole exchange. "That was bloody brilliant, mate," he whispered to Mr. Stalker after a brief internal battle between awesomeness and prejudice.

Mr. Stalker smiled. Ron started talking about Quidditch again.

Harry turned to Draco. "Whatever you do, don't let your goons meet Ron's brothers."

* * *

"Harry, why'd you let them stick around? That Malfoy's bad news, I can smell it."

Ron had finally stopped talking about Quidditch after Draco had started a running commentary on important details that had been left out of Ron's enthusiastic rants, but it had left him bitter on the topic of the young Mr. Malfoy for the rest of the train ride.

"Come on, Mr. Crimson, you like his goons well enough. You can't tell me that Mr. Stalker brought up Draco's father like that for no reason, can you? That was a good five minutes of hilarity."

Ron chuckled at the memory. "Yeah, Gregory's alright. Dunno about Mr. Loom, though, all he did was stand there... Looming..."

"He's good at that," replied Harry. "Come on, I think I see Hagrid over there."

They had reached the end of the moonlit path, and the other first-year students were _ooo_ing and _aaaa_ing about something Harry couldn't see just yet. Harry still needed to give Hagrid the jar of spiders in his pocket, but he hadn't had a chance yet; all the first-years had been whisked away through the woods the moment they'd gotten off the train, following Hagrid to wherever-this-was.

Harry was thinking about how sad and shallow his relationship with his spiders had been in comparison to the friends he'd met on the train today when he stepped out from the trees and saw what the rest of them had been so impressed by. The castle stood tall against the night sky, dozens of turrets and towers and fancy castle parts striking high into the darkness. From this distance, the lights in the windows looked like warm stars, while the edges of the castle were a blackness that cut against the true stars beyond. Starlight and candlelight reflected from the surface of a great lake, creating a splendor that no mortal artist could capture. Harry felt his breath caught by the raw beauty of it. _This is a Wizards' School_. Harry wondered at it, at its beauty and mystery. _Where are we?_

"A'right, no more'n four to a boat," called Hagrid. "Righ' this way, plenty o' boats for all o' ye." Harry hurried forward to meet Hagrid again. "Ah, Harry, there you are. Got here safe? No trouble from that great puddin' of a relative?"

"Not too much trouble," said Harry, smiling. "I even made some friends on the way here." He clutched the jar with his spiders in it, knowing he'd probably never see them again. "Er, I wanted to give you these, they used to live in my cupboard. They were kind of my friends, before..."

Hagrid took the jar, smiling at Harry. "I'll take good care of 'em, Harry. Now, into a boat!" As Harry joined Ron, Neville, and Hermidunno in the nearest boat, he spared a glance back to the fate of his spiders. Hagrid was stuffing the jar into one of his many pockets, a look of surprise on his huge face. "Everybody in?" he called, claiming an empty boat for himself. "Right then- FORWARD!"

Harry managed to get the precociously annoying girl mad at him within twelve seconds. "So, Neville, Hermajesty, did you ever find that toad?"

For some reason this caused Hermindful to get angry. "It's HERMIONE, you tactless twerp!"

Neville was holding onto something tightly and didn't say anything.

"Sorry, sorry, bad with names," said Harry.

"Really? I thought you were just giving her one of your crazy nicknames," suggested Ron.

"Right! Nicknames! Because... you're the, um-"

"Forget it," said Hermione.

Harry sighed. "Really, I'm sorry. I'm terrible with names. Have you met Mr. Crimson?"

"Mr. who?"

"Mr. Crimson," said Harry, indicating Ron. "The celebrated hero, skilled in the art of polychromaticizing rodentia."

"Yes, I was there for that," replied Hermione. "You introduced him as Ron Weasley last time."

"Ah, right, forgot."

Hermione glared at Harry.

"Uh, Harry, I did get my toad back," said Neville. "H-Hagrid found him."

"Oh, Great! Love Hagrid, he's awesome." Harry smiled at Hermione. "He's even taking care of Mr. Bitey and Madame Pinch for me," he explained.

"Alright, I'm pretty sure I haven't met _them_ yet. Who are you talking about?"

Ron put his hands over his ears and started humming.

Harry waited until Ron had gotten a good tune going before he elaborated further. "They're my pet spiders. I had them in a jar in my pocket the whole time."

"Aaaugh!"

* * *

Somehow, they made it across the lake without Harry getting an oar upside his head, although it had been a near thing once or twice. Harry had spent some time trying to talk to Neville, and let Ron deal with Hermione the Spider Hater. _They've got something in common, at least_, thought Harry ruefully. Once they were across, Harry and Ron gravitated towards Mr. Stalker.

"You know, Mr. Stalker," said Ron as they walked to the castle, "you ought to meet my brothers. I've got a feeling you'd get along like a house on fire."

"More like a castle full of dragons," muttered Harry, remembering the twins. "Wait, no, that's bad! Don't do it!"

Mr. Stalker grinned at him. "Why, Mr. Potter, you make it sound as though you're afraid of the possibilities that such a partnership would produce..." He grinned again, this time with a bit of a sinister slant to his teeth.

Harry was wondering how Mr. Stalker had managed to slant his teeth like that when Hagrid reached the castle's great main gates, massive things that dwarfed even Hagrid's immense form.

_KNOCK_

_KNOCK_

_KNOCK_

And the doors opened...


	5. Chapter 5: Magic

Harry Potter and the Garden of Intrigue

Being an exploration of the differences in Mr. Potter's life pursuant to his understanding victorian flower language at age 11. Single Point-of-Departure: Harry has a working lightbulb in his cupboard.

Harry Potter, all related characters, and the original Harry Potter narative are properties of J. K. Rowling.

Chapter 5

Magic

"It's _singing_."

Ron shrugged. "My uncle Craig has a singing hammer."

"But it's _singing_. _Why _is it _singing?_"

Neville patted Harry on the shoulder. "Cheer up, Harry, at least it isn't dancing."

Harry shuddered. "After Professor Serious-"

"McGonagall," supplied Neville.

"-McGonagall, thanks Neville, I was expecting something more grand. Less... floppy."

Ron shrugged again. "That's magic for you."

Harry had asked Draco what the Sorting was about, but it had turned out that Draco didn't even know. Mr. Stalker explained it as 'proprietary information' that nobody was allowed to know until they went through it. Harry was starting to wonder where Mr. Stalker had learned to talk like a lawyer.

Hermione was just on the other side of Neville. Harry leaned around and asked "_pssst! Hermione!_" only to be shushed away before he could ask her anything.

"I think she's trying to listen to the song, Harry," consoled Neville.

Harry sighed, and tried to pay attention to the last few lines of the _SINGING HAT'S _welcoming song.

"Cheer up, mate, Fred told me we'd be wrestling a troll," said Ron.

"A big one?"

Shrug.

"Don't trolls turn to stone in daylight?"

"Not all of 'em. Dad says-"

"_Shhhh!" _Hermione was glaring at them, and pointing at the hat. Harry and Ron gave her matching apologetic glances, mixed with a bit of guilt for good measure. Harry looked back to the hat, which had finished singing; Professor Do Not Cross McGonagall was calling out names, and Harry's fellow fresh wizarding recruits were stumbling, one by one, up to the hat. Harry desperately blocked out everything else around him, focusing on what was probably the most important test he'd ever taken. _Put hat on head. Be sorted. Take off hat. Go to table. What's happening when the hat goes on the head? _

"Aww, no, not Greg," lamented Ron, snapping Harry out of his concentration. "I mean, Malfoy's obviously Slytherin, but Greg seemed like a good guy..."

"What?" asked Harry. He was a bit confused; he'd heard a lot of anti-Slytherin talk from Ron and Hagrid, but Draco seemed to think it was the seat of the gods. Harry thought about that for a moment as Hermione got sorted into Gryffindor. "Oh..."

"Yeah." Ron looked about as depressed as Harry had been when Madame Pinch had eaten her husband. Neville went to Gryffindor, looking proud of himself.

"So... Why can't we hang out with them anyways? I mean they're still Hogwarts," whispered Harry, as Malfoy joined the Slytherin table.

Ron just stared at him.

"Ron, we had a talk about staring earlier..."

"Potter, Harry!" called Professor McGonagall.

_I'm about to be sorted, I have no idea where I'm going, I'm sticking an ancient and powerful artifact of wizardry on my head, is this like the One Ring? I really hope it doesn't turn you evil if you sit under it too long. I don't think I could throw a hat into the fires from whence it came. _Harry stopped walking. _Wait, hats aren't made in fires. Throw it into the sewing machine from whence it came? Stab it with the needle from whence it came? _

"Mr. Potter, kindly keep walking until you reach the Sorting Hat," intoned Professor Mcgonagall quietly. Harry nearly jumped out of his skin, and the strain to his integument flushed it red from roots to toes. He started walking again.

_Great, now I've spaced out in front of the whole school, _thought Harry miserably. _Left, Right, Left, Right, Left, Right, Right, Left, Spin, Take hat, Sit, Put hat on head. _

_The spin was a nice touch,_ said the Sorting Hat directly into Harry's brain.

_AAAAAAAAGH! _thought Harry.

_Don't panic, I'm not the last remaining tool of any Dark Wizards. Needle from whence I came, eh? You've got a good imagination, Harry. _

_Aaaaaaaagh, _thought Harry.

_I'm docking you points on bravery for that. Let's see, short-term history... I sing every year, you know. _

_The rhymes were a bit off,_ noted Harry.

_It's a new song every time. You've been making friends, I see. Good hand at diplomacy, spreading seeds of chaos... I might have to put you in Slytherin for that. _

_I didn't spread chaos! Ron was the one who wanted to let Fredandgeorge meet the Goons!_

_Your habit of giving people new names isn't helping your case, you know. Long-term history..._

_I only started doing that today, _groused Harry. _Besides, I don't really want anything. _

_Except friends?_

_Except friends. _

_Hmm... _The sorting hat went silent for a while. Harry was afraid he'd broken it.

_No, no, you can't break me. You haven't got the right needle, for one thing. _

_That's for real?_

_Perhaps... You've got plenty of traits to work with, young man. Courage, imagination, diligence... Difficult decision. I could put you in Ravenclaw, with those who love knowledge. You enjoy books, do you not? _

_I didn't really have much else to enjoy, _Harry countered quickly. _You're reading my memories?_

_Yes. _

_...Wow. Uh, could you skip past the parts where Dudley was afraid of me? That feels awkward as a memory. _

_Too late, _replied the Sorting Hat. _I've already got all of it. How about Hufflepuff? You've stuck through thick and thicker with your Aunt and Uncle's unpleasantness, not to mention the regular beatings from your cousin and his friends... _

_That's two, _thought Harry. _I don't really know much about these houses. Don't you just make the decision for me? _

_Sometimes a bit of voluntary input helps to tip the scales. How about Slytherin? Your friend Draco is there, after all. Not to mention..._

Harry hesitated for a moment. _But Ron hates Slytherin more than he hates spiders! And Hagrid, well, there's got to be a reason why they don't like that house. I don't want to disappoint them. _

_That just about settles it, then. If you don't want Slytherin, it'll have to be-_

_Um, what were you not mentioning? _

_Something unmentionable. It won't let me read it, whatever it is. Are you sure you don't want Ravenclaw? They're in need of inquisitive minds. _

_I don't think I'm cut out for that much study, _admitted Harry, recalling his grades from Muggle School.

_Right. You're definitely going to _"GRYFFINDOR!"

Harry was greeted by a wall of sound as Professor McGonagall lifted the Sorting Hat from his head. It seemed like he was being cheered by pretty much everybody in the room; even Professor McGonagall gave him a few short claps. FredandGeorge were dancing. Harry dazedly tottered over to the Gryffindor table, taking a seat next to one of the Weasleys - not FredorGeorge - and across from a ghost.

Harry blinked. The Weasley shook his hand. "Well done, Harry, well done," said the Weasley, slapping him on the back.

"Er, thanks," replied Harry, still staring at the ghost. "You're Percy? Ron's other brother?"

Percy beamed. "You've met Our Ron, then? Fantastic, I'm sure you'll be great friends."

"Yeah, we get along pretty well. Don't let Ron introduce your other brothers to Mr. Stalker."

Percy looked puzzled. "Who?"

"Er, Gregory Goyle. Trust me," said Harry, noting the growing look of alarm in Percy's face. "He's already planning on it, and I'm convinced they'd set the castle on fire or something." Percy swallowed hard, looking over at Ron, who just coming up to the Sorting Hat as the second-to-last to be sorted.

"But, Goyle's a _Slytherin_," choked Percy. "Why is Ron friends with a _Slytherin?_" He paled. "What if _Ron_ gets sorted into Slytherin!" The idea seemed about to send Percy into a fit of apoplexy.

Harry sighed. "Draco's a slytherin too, I'm friends with him. _I _was almost a Slytherin. What's wrong with being a Slytherin?"

Percy's right eye began to twitch in a manner most disconcertingly reminiscent of Vernon Dursley. Harry tried to think of a way to change the subject, failed, tried to turn invisible, failed again, and panicked.

"GRYFFINDOR!" shouted the Sorting Hat. Percy deflated, slumping into his chair with visible exhaustion.

Ron trotted up to the table to semi-thunderous applause from Harry and the Gryffindors, and Percy made a valiant recovery to join in. "Well done, Ron, well done!"

"Do you say that to everybody," asked Harry, "Or just people you like?"

Percy blushed.

"Hey, Harry. Did you give Percy a nickname yet?"

"No, I already knew his name. I was thinking of Draco as Movie Villain Name earlier, though."

Ron chortled, while Percy paled again as he remembered what Harry had been telling him. "Ron, are you actually friends with a... a _Slytherin?_"

Ron stopped chortling. "No, I - Harry," glared Ron, "Did you tell him about Mr. Stalker?"

Percy appeared to be making a convincing impression of the ghost across from Harry, which he still wanted to get some answers about. Harry was about to reply when Professor Dumbledore - Harry recognized him from some pictures he'd seen on the train - started making a speech.

"Welcome! Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts!" The silver beard was very impressive in real life, Harry noted. "Before we begin the banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"

Harry gaped. There was applause and laughter, which made sense. Then there was Professor Dumbledore, who didn't. "He's a looney!"

Ron elbowed him. "Says the looney. You told Percy, didn't you." Harry shrugged.

Percy was making a rather slower recovery this time around. "Dumbledore's a mad genius," he intoned with a dead-eyed expression. "Best wizard in the world by far, and of course he used to be in Gryffindor." This seemed to perk up Percy's flagging spirits. "Hungry?"

There was food on the tables. Piles of food, mountains of food, food rivers, food plateaus. Harry grabbed a few landmarks and spooned them onto his plate. The ghost, who was dressed in a rather frilly outfit, did not.

"Er, Ron," said Harry indistinctly, chewing his topiary broccoli. "Is that a ghost?"

"Yep."

"Er, Percy," mumbled Harry rather more distinctly after taking a drink of a mysterious orange beverage. "This is delicious. Why are there ghosts?"

"Generally, or here at the welcoming feast?"

"Here at the feast. And generally. I've never seen ghosts before."

Percy looked over to the ghost. "Nick, meet Harry Potter. Harry Potter, Nearly Headless Nick."

"Charmed," said Nick by way of greeting. Instead of tipping his hat, however, he tipped his entire head, which had been almost but not quite severed by some unforgiving headsman.

"_Aaaaaaaaaaagh,_" said Harry, quietly. "Nice to meet you."

* * *

While Harry got acquainted with Nearly Headless- and gradually recovered his appetite- Professor Dumbledore gave a few more announcements. Things like "Please be appreciative of Mr. Filch, he works hard to keep this castle clean;" "don't go into the Forbidden Forest, really, we mean it this time, this means _you_ Weasley Brothers;" "don't go to the third-floor corridor marked _extremely deadly_ unless your life's goal is to be extremely dead. We do put these signs up for a reason."

Harry wondered how much work it would actually take to keep a multi-dimensional magical castle with trick staircases clean. He asked Percy.

"That's why you shouldn't bother Filch, Harry. The man cleans the entire castle _by himself_. Every day."

"Well, he does have his cat," suggested Nearly Headless Nick. Harry had been considering nicknames for him until he realized that Nearly Headless' name _was_ Nick. "A well-trained familiar can be quite useful, you know."

"No sense of humor, though," added Ron. " 'Least that's what George says."

"Wow," observed Harry.

Professor McGonagall walked down from the High Table and handed Percy what looked like a short, handwritten list. Harry was instantly curious about its purpose.

"Well, Harry," said Percy before Harry got a chance to ask. "Looks like I've got your room assignments. You'll be with Ron, Neville Longbottom, Dean Thomas, and Seamus -"

"_There_ you are, brother ours!" The Twins had converged on Percy like a pair of synchronized wolves, interrupting his train of thought in mid-rail.

"We've been feeling a bit lonely without you-"

"-So we thought we'd come visit."

"Family being what it is."

"Hi, FredandGeorge," said Harry. "Percy was just telling me who I'll be rooming with this year."

Fred _at least it's probably Fred_ grinned. "What, you and all the other ickle firsties? All in a room?"

George _unless it isn't_ mirrored his twin. "What fun! You'll have to invite us for scones, Harry."

"We'll bring tea, and have a party-"

"Which will be ever so congenial-"

"Whenever you like-"

"So which room is yours?"

Harry scowled. "Are you putting me on?" From the looks on their faces, he was pretty sure they were.

They grinned at him. Percy, of course, spoiled the entire effect by answering their question. "Harry will be in the Thunder Room, as I was about to tell him."

"Oooh, the Thunder Room," admired George.

"We haven't pulled a good prank in there for, what-"

"Two months?"

"Three, at least."

"Ah, summertime. What have you done to us?"

Harry turned to Ron, desperation in his eyes, but Ron had no desire to get caught in the brewing catastrophe. "Why me?"

The Twins chuckled. "They always ask that, don't they, Fred?"

"Sure enough, Fred, sure enough."

"Well, Harry, the truth of it is, you got us pretty good with that jar of spiders,"

"And we're not the sort to leave debts hanging about, if you catch our meaning." They winked in unison.

"So you're trying to _get me back_?"

They nodded, grinning. "Right."

Percy had gone pale again.

* * *

Harry had eaten more food at the feast than he'd ever had in a _day_ before. He was lying on his new bunk, experiencing a very upset stomach's protest against overeating. Ron wasn't very sympathetic.

"Why'd you tell him about Gregory?"

"Why'd _you_ get all stuffy about Slytherin?"

Ron glowered. "Slytherin is bad news, Harry. You-Know-Who was in Slytherin, Severus Snape was in Slytherin, Lucius Malfoy was in Slytherin," he ticked off fingers as he worked his way through the list. "Most of the Death Eaters were in Slytherin, their kids are in Slytherin, Draco's in Slytherin,"

"Wait, you counted Draco twice."

"What? No, his father, Lucius. I said Lucius."

"You think Draco's father is luscious? You're very weird, Ron."

"_Lucius!_" shouted Ron. Dean Thomas chuckled.

"Relax, Ron, Harry's just messing with you."

Ron grumbled. "Anyway, Slytherin's full of rotten wizards. You can't trust 'em."

Harry wasn't convinced. "You liked Greg well enough before he got Sorted. And Draco's not bad, I mean, he's stuck-up and kinda spoiled, but he's ten times better than my cousin."

"Yeah, but Harry," Seamus informed him from his top bunk, "he's in _Slytherin_."

Harry rolled his eyes, praying to high heaven that somebody would start making _sense_ instead of going round in circles. "So," he inquired of Seamus, "what's wrong with Slytherin itself?"

Ron answered. "I just told you!"

Neville raised his hand. "Uh, Ron, if Slytherin never had any good people in it, wouldn't they just arrest them as soon as they got Sorted?"

Ron brightened. "Yeah, they should! You're brilliant, Neville!" Seamus grinned at that.

Harry smacked himself in the forehead. "Ron, he didn't say they _should_. He said they _don't_, because Slytherin isn't made entirely of evil people. Right, Neville?"

Neville nodded.

"Fine, maybe they're not all evil, but Malfoy's still a rotter."

"Agreed," agreed Seamus.

"Aaugh!"

Dean started laughing. "This is better than TV!"

"What's TV?" asked Neville.

Harry and Dean stared at him. Ron didn't. "Uh, Harry? I don't know what TV is either."

Harry shared a look of sympathetic pity with Dean, and started to explain.

"You mean Muggles have to get a special box to make their pictures move?"

"Wait, you get radio with _pictures?_"

"They watch _how many_ hours a day?"

By the time they finished explaining, Harry and Dean had learned almost as much about Wizarding society as they'd taught Ron and Neville about Muggle society. Not to mention the apparent lack of Muggle technology in Wizard homes. Seamus, having a parent from each world, already knew all of it and had packed in early. _Lucky_.

"Harry, I think I'm safe in saying that Muggle Studies is going to be the easiest O we'll ever earn," said Ron. Harry yawned.

"Well, goodnight, guys, I've got to say, you make a great floor show," whooped Dean from his own top bunk. "How do we turn the lights out again?"

"_Dulak_."

"Thanks, Neville."

Harry said his goodnights, got into bed - in the second real bed he'd ever had, and by far the most comfortable. "Ron?"

"Yeah, Harry?"

"You still think Greg's cool, right?"

Ron didn't answer for about a minute. "Ron?"

"Yeah, Harry, Greg's all right."

"Cool. Percy's gonna have a heart attack if you tell him you're friends with a Slytherin, though."

"_Harry!" _

"_I'm_ not going to tell him! I don't want any blood on my hands!"

"_GOODNIGHT_, fellas!"

"Sorry, Seamus," whispered Harry. "Goodnight."

Ron mumbled something incomprehensible, and Harry decided it was time to sleep. He snugged himself into the covers, listening to the sounds of the castle below. _Grinding stone? Wait, there was a moving staircase on the way up here._ Harry hoped Hagrid was taking care of his spiders, although with so many new friends in just one day of being a wizard Harry didn't feel any real sense of loss at their absence. Iris had been sent up to the Owl's Hall, surrounded by other owls with lots of windows to fly out of whenever she wanted. Harry was pretty happy about that.

_Tomorrow, _he thought, as he drifted to sleep. _Tomorrow I learn how to be a wizard._


	6. Chapter 6: How to Spell

Harry Potter and the Garden of Intrigue

Being an exploration of the differences in Mr. Potter's life pursuant to his understanding victorian flower language at age 11. Single Point-of-Departure: Harry has a working lightbulb in his cupboard.

Harry Potter, all related characters, and the original Harry Potter narative are properties of J. K. Rowling.

Chapter 6

How To Spell

"I've figured out why Dumbledore's a looney," said Harry.

Ron kept looking for suits of armor wielding maces.

"It's because the _castle_ is a looney. They needed a Headmaster to fit."

"History of Magic is in the West tower, right?"

Neville checked his compass. "We're heading North right now."

Harry almost felt like crying. His first day at Hogwarts, and he couldn't even find his way to class! At least they'd made it to breakfast.

"I say, young chaps, are you new at Hogwarts?" Harry and his first-year Gryffindor friends looked around wildly for the source of the voice. It didn't sound like Peeves this time, which was a great relief, but Harry had heard some stories about Filch the caretaker. He did not want to meet such a man before he even had his first class. "Up here, look up here, there's a good fellow."

Harry gaped. The portrait above them was talking. "Er, hi," he squeaked.

"Can you give us directions?" asked Ron.

"Certainly, my fine chap! History of Magic, eh? That one's not moved in over three hundred years, with Binns teaching it. Take this staircase," the portrait pointed East, "up two floors, turn round, go down three floors, open the wall where it looks like an aardvark, and climb the spiral stair thirteen revolutions. Mind the hundred-and-twelfth step, it's not really there. Bit of a nasty fall if you forget."

The portrait was _talking_. Harry remembered Ron had mentioned moving pictures being normal in newspapers, photo albums, and all manner of paintings, but he'd never expected them to _talk_.

"Right, thanks," said Neville. Dean and Ron grabbed Harry by the arms and dragged him up the stairs. "We appreciate it."

* * *

Harry forgot about the hundred-and-twelfth stair on the spiral. The portrait was right, it was a bit of a nasty fall; fortunately, Harry had had far worse from his cousin back in Number Four Privet Drive, so he was back up the stairs by the time Ron had turned around to find him. He was, however, very confused when he found the door labeled 'History of Magic' and the others couldn't see it.

"Well, we've only gone 'round twelve times," suggested Dean, "and you've gone thirteen with that fall."

Harry nodded. "I guess that makes sense with magic." He opened the door. "I'll see you guys in a bit?"

"Yep."

Hermione had already arrived, and was reading an enormous book that Harry was sure hadn't been on the list of preferred reading. He sat on the opposite side of the room. Most of the other students were there, too; Seamus waved at him. When Ron, Neville, and Dean had arrived and found their seats, the class began.

* * *

Harry decided that History of Magic was _boring_. Even though Professor Binns was a ghost, which had looked interesting enough at the start of the class, it turned out that his lectures were as dry as his bones. Harry started passing notes halfway through the explanation of the Raising of Hogwarts.

_This would be a lot more interesting if he didn't just drone on in a monotone_.

_Yeah, right? If he were still alive, he could make an illusion or something, really get us into it. Like the Muggles do on that TB you told us about. _

_TV. Your dad's interested in Muggle stuff, right? _

_He's spare over it!_

_But you don't have a TV in your house?_

_Mom won't allow it. _

_Hey guys! What'cha passing notes about? -Dean_

Harry realized he wasn't paying any attention to the class about two seconds after Hermione hit him right in the ear with a paper glider. _PAY ATTENTION_ had been written on it in a meticulous, yet angry, hand. Harry gestured surreptitiously to the ghostly professor, and tried to listen to the rest of the lecture on Hogwarts' history. Hermione kept asking when they'd get into more detailed study of her favorite subjects.

Their next class was Herbology; fortunately, Hermione seemed to be a natural at navigating the castle.

"Why are you so good at getting around the castle, Hermione?" asked Harry. "Neville's got a compass, and we still couldn't find the right tower without a portrait telling us how."

Hermione sniffed. "I've just got a good memory. I had to ask for directions, too, you know." She still looked pretty pleased with herself.

* * *

Herbology turned out to be _far_ more interesting than History of Magic. Professor Sprout started them off with a lecture on the dangers of magical plants, which Harry didn't doubt even for a moment; the descriptions in _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ had been pretty amazing. Apparently, Wizard plants didn't get their names from their discoverers as much as from their effects and abilities.

For their first lesson, Professor Sprout showed them a flowering Day Lily, which glowed. She also showed them a variety of semi-normal plants whose magic didn't reach full power unless a wizard used them. Harry recognized a few of them from his Aunt Petunia's book of Victorian Flower language, and was doubly impressed by the way the interpretations from his Aunt's book matched up with the uses of the different herbs and flowers.

* * *

Tuesday was Charms day; Professor Flitwick nearly fell off his desk when he read Harry's name in the roll call, but then he demonstrated the power of Charms by turning the air pink and making sparkling fireflies appear out of nowhere. Harry was impressed, but then Professor Flitwick launched into a lecture on safety protocols and the dangers of misspoken charms. The bit about the water buffalo was particularly graphic.

Harry had looked at some of the first-year Charms in his Standard Book of Spells; he was very excited at the prospect of learning to use them. Levitating objects, cheering people up, cleaning things... At the end of the lecture, they started work on Freezing Charms. It was the first time Harry had been able to use his wand for a real spell, and the feeling of power and accomplishment was intense. Of course, when his water didn't freeze, he felt pretty miserable.

"Don't worry, Harry, I'm sure you'll pick it up quickly enough," advised Professor Flitwick. "This is your first class on wand-use, isn't it?"

Harry nodded. When it turned out that Hermione had gotten her water from room-temperature to chilly on the first try, though, he threw himself into the charm, trying again and again to chill the water. Ron was sitting next to Hermione, and both of them managed to make ice by the end of the lesson. Seamus had frost on the edges, and even Neville's water was cold.

Harry's was still lukewarm.

* * *

"Cheer up, Harry, I didn't freeze mine either."

"Yeah, but at least yours got colder. I think mine actually heated up," whined Harry.

Ron gave him a light punch on the shoulder. "Come on, Harry, you're famous. You beat you-know-who, everybody knows you've got magic. You can freeze a bit of water, just keep trying."

"You're starting to sound a lot like Hermione, Ron," Harry groused.

Hermione overheard him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means he's telling me how to do things!"

Hermione crossed her arms. "Well, he _did_ manage to freeze his water. Maybe you should listen to him."

Harry sulked all the way to lunch. During lunch, he sat between Ron and Fred, trying to make sure they didn't collaborate on any evil schemes to meet the Goons. The strawberry tarts improved his mood immensely; by the end of lunch, Fred and Ron had conspired to teach Harry the freezing charm. Harry was so elated by his ability to freeze pumpkin juice that he didn't even notice he'd lost his drink to his Charms work until Fred started laughing.

"All right, you got me. Are we even now, FredandGeorge?"

"Nah, there's no such thing as even." Fred winked at George, seated across the table from Harry. "Just wait until we're ready to _really_ prank you."

"It'll make Peeves look like an amateur."

"Come on, George, Peeves _is_ an amateur."

"Right enough."

"It'll make him look like _Filch_."

The whole table got a laugh out of that. Harry started feeling worried on Wednesday, though. The Twins were working on a super prank, since Harry had shown himself worthy of their efforts. Last Thursday had been almost entirely pleasant... Harry had a sinking feeling that this Thursday was going to pay for all.

* * *

Wednesday morning was Defense Against the Dark Arts. Everybody was excited about this class; not counting the rumor of a curse on the position of teacher, it was also the class where they'd learn about all the really dangerous creatures in the world.

"Dragons!"

"Vampires!"

"Trolls!"

"_Boys!"_

"Come on, Hermione, don't you want to learn about terrible curses?" Ron had been spending a lot of time with Hermione, Harry noted.

"And what about all the giant _spiders_ they'll teach us about, Ron?"

Ron immediately stopped talking, and walked with Dean between himself and Hermione.

"Nice one, Hermione," complimented Harry. "Didn't think you had a pranking bone in your body until today."

"You're just not taking this seriously, are you? Do you realize," Hermione began, "how incredibly _dead_ you would be from meeting even a half-grown mountain troll?"

"Are those the ones that go sunbathing, or the ones that turn to stone?" inquired Harry.

"The ones that turn to stone!" Hermione took a few deep breaths, trying to calm herself down. "Really they just stare at the sun, though. They think it's pretty. And their skin is so tough that they seem like they're made of stone, so legends built up about them. They're incredibly dangerous, Harry!"

Harry grinned. "We're Gryffindors, Hermione. Danger is what we live for."

"Too right!"

"Thanks, Dean. So what about dragons?"

Hermione sighed. "You're just unbelievable, you know that?"

"Well," agreed Harry, "we want to know, and you know, you know?"

"Know what?"

"_Everything_." Harry grinned again. "I think I've figured out your nickname, Hermajesty. It's more of a title, but still..."

Ron returned from the Far Side of the Dean. "Alright, I've been waiting for this!"

"Your Imperial Higness, Hermajesty, Master of all Human Knowledge," intoned Harry, bowing to Hermione.

"Oh, shut up," protested Hermione. "You tried this on the boats, remember?"

"That was before I understood your royal domain, Oh Great and Powerful Hermione. Bless us with your wisdom, Great Hermajesty, poor peasants of ignorance that we be."

Hermione ignored him.

"Hey, Harry, we're here," said Neville, hesitantly.

* * *

Defense Against the Dark Arts was a bit of a disappointment. Quirrel was afraid of anything that moved, he stuttered, smelled like garlic all the time - "To w-ward off vampires, you know," - and generally made himself look like a fool.

Harry and Dean asked him about every Muggle legend they could think of.

"Do trolls really regenerate?"

"Trolls? W-Where?" Quirrel looked about as though expecting a troll to pop up out of nowhere. "Oh, you were just k-kidding around." He wiped his brow with a purple silk kerchief as he leaned against his desk, then jumped as though stung by the wood. "T-Trolls come in f-five main categories, each with its own w-weaknesses and s-strengths. Sea Trolls and H-Hill Trolls regenerate, while Mountain Trolls do not."

"Is it true that you turn into a vampire when a vampire drinks your blood?"

Again, Quirrel jumped at the mention of fantastic creatures. "Y-yes, if the conditions are r-right, a body d-drained of b-blood by a v-ampire will rise again. Vampires are q-q-quite tricky, you know, since they r-remember their mortal l-lives. F-Fortunately, most v-vampires have trouble using wizard's w-wands as well as they did in l-life. That's why I'm s-still alive."

After a few more questions, Hermione started answering their questions in great detail. She phrased each answer as a question, allowing Professor Quirrel to simply confirm her statements and saving him the trouble of lecturing the class around his stutter. Hermione earned over thirty points for Gryffindor during that class.

* * *

"You know, Hermione, if we keep this up the House Cup will go to Gryffindor for sure," exulted Ron after class.

"That seems awfully like cheating, Ron," admonished Hermione.

"It's not cheating, it's just creative learning," objected Dean. "Besides, you're getting rewarded for knowing things, there's nothing wrong with that."

"Yeah, Hermione, you could probably earn the House Cup by yourself if FredandGeorge didn't manage to lose ten points every day," opined Harry.

Hermione was shocked that any student would be capable of such a loss of points. She was more shocked when Ron explained that the Twins had made a game of it.

"I can't believe anyone could lose so many points _deliberately_! It's like they don't even care about the school's rules!"

"Exactly," agreed Ron and Harry.

* * *

Astronomy was held Wednesday at midnight. Harry was actually pretty curious about this subject; he didn't really care about the constellations, but the idea that wizards _did_ care was enough to make Harry care. Just a little.

He asked Hermione why they needed to study Astronomy on the way to the tower.

"Astral interference with global energy fields," she explained. "Planetary alignment. Astrological influences. Solar radiation. The lost civilation of Atlantis built magical relay towers on every planet in the solar system, and their position relative to the Earth is what determines the efficiency of your spells."

"Wow, really?"

She rolled her eyes. "No, Harry, I'm making it all up. I have no idea why the constellations are important, none of my books tell me."

Harry grumbled at the manifest frustration embodied in Hermione, and the way it spread itself across the world to target him. "You could just say that to begin with."

"But it's so much more fun this way!"

"You've been talking to my brothers," accused Ron. "haven't you?"

Hermione had the decency to flush, at least. "Well, yes. They're very interesting, aren't they? And they've learned much more than we have."

"D'you think you could introduce them to Mr. Stalker? Harry won't let me do it, and Percy's been keeping an eye on me, too."

Hermione crossed her arms again. "That's not happening, Mr. Crimson. Fred and George aren't the only Weasleys I've been studying with."

Ron raised his hands to the sky, pleading with Fate to give him a break. "Come on!" He turned to Harry. "This is all your fault, you know."

"What?" Harry spread his hands. "I just want Hogwarts to stick around for a few more years, that's all."

Ron glared at him. "They're not going to burn the castle down!"

* * *

Astronomy turned out to be mildly interesting. They didn't just study the positions of the stars and the movement of the planets; they also got into the mythology and the history surrounding each one. Harry didn't hear anything about the moons of other planets, though, which surprised him.

When he asked the professor about Io and Ganymede, she gave him a lecture on their mythology. Harry clarified that he'd been wondering about the moons of Jupiter.

As it turned out, wizards didn't follow Muggle Science _at all_. Their professor knew about the Moons of Jupiter, but didn't know anything about their material composition, their surface conditions, or any of it. The rest of the class devolved into a discussion between Hermione and the professor about the different properties of every moon, planet, comet, and major asteroid. Harry took notes.

* * *

Thursday morning.

Harry was afraid to get out of bed. He'd asked Professor Sprout for a good herb to help him recover from a Weasley Prank, and she'd given him a small phial with a strange potion inside it. She'd told him it was a potion for quickly expelling toxins from the body, and that he should drink it immediately if the Twins pranked him with something edible. She'd also given him directions to the hospital wing.

Harry was still afraid to get out of bed. Ron had to drag him out with help from Dean and Seamus. "Come on, Harry, we've got Transfiguration today. Professor McGonagall teaches that one."

Harry was ready for class within two minutes.

"Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts. Anyone caught messing around in my class," she gave Ron a pointed look, "will leave and not come back. You have been warned."

Harry thought it was very impressive when she turned her desk into a pig and back. He applauded. This was rewarded with a very stern look from Professor Do Not Cross McGonagall, and the words "Your enthusiasm is appreciated, Mr. Potter. But in the future, please do try to restrain such outbursts during lectures."

"Sorry, Professor," Harry said apologetically.

Professor McGonagall's safety lecture was about three times as long as any of the other professor's lectures.

"Do not transfigure any object that you have not learned how to properly transfigure. Do not experiment with Transfiguration without supervision from myself or Professor Dumbledore. Do not transfigure any object larger than your head, you haven't the energy for it. Do not attempt to transfigure any other students, or any living creature unless directly instructed to do so by myself or Professor Dumbledore." The list went on.

After about thirty minutes of safety lecture, and a session of question-and-answer in which Hermione got all the safety regulations correct - Harry and Ron were sitting on either side of Hermione this time, having learned from Charms class that she usually knew everything - Professor McGonagall started handing out toothpicks. Hermione raised her hand.

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

"I was told that first-year students usually begin with matches, Professor. Is this a change to the curriculum?"

Professor McGonagall almost smiled. "Yes, Miss Granger. We will work with matches starting Tuesday. Today, we will be working with the simplest Transfiguration possible."

"Thank you, Professor."

When they had all gotten their toothpicks, Professor McGonagall started telling them the proper method for Transfiguration. Harry took notes. Hermione took more notes. Ron doodled.

They began.

They spent almost thirty minutes trying to transform toothpicks into needles by sheer force of will, during which Professor McGonagall gave them more of the basic theory behind Transfiguration and walked among them, giving advice whenever she could. By the end of the class, Harry and Ron had managed to make their toothpicks a bit sleeker, and Hermione had made hers very shiny indeed.

Harry managed to contain his jealousy this time. It was much easier, since he'd actually gotten _some_ change to his toothpick.

* * *

After Transfiguration, Harry regaled them with the tale of the Sorting Hat, and how it could probably only be destroyed by the needle that had forged it. Hermione corrected his grammar.

"You know, Ron, today wasn't bad at all. I learned how to almost transfigure a toothpick, Hermione was less annoying than usual, and the Halo Hash the Twins gave me wasn't nearly as bad as I'd thought it would be. I mean, having to be completely honest was kind of irritating-"

"I'll say," agreed Neville.

"Sorry, Neville. Really. But the potion Professor Sprout gave me cleared it up in no time."

"Still hurt my feelings. You really think like that?"

Harry thought for a moment. "Have you ever had a moment where you think something mean, and then you change your mind? It was like that. I wish I hadn't said it. I wish I hadn't even thought it," Harry apologized.

"Well," replied Neville, "I guess I can forgive you. I've thought mean things about Ron a few times."

"Hey!"

"Sorry."

Harry smiled, knowing his friends were still his friends. He still felt like the Twins were working up to something bigger, but for today, Thursday had thrown its usual curveball.

* * *

"Hey, Harry, we've got double Potions with Slytherin tomorrow," said Ron.

"Oh, good, you'll get to catch up with Greg," responded Harry.

"Hey, Ron," asked Dean, "Doesn't Professor Snape teach Potions?"

"Yeah," confirmed Seamus. "The unhealthy one with the black hair? They tell me he's real into the Dark Arts, too."

Harry remembered the greasy-looking professor from the High Table. "He gives me headaches just by looking at me," he complained.

"I've heard he favors Slytherin," added Ron. "Maybe I should sit next to Gregory, see if his favoritism will rub off on me."

"Wow, Ron, that's sounding pretty sneaky of you. Are you sure the Sorting Hat didn't offer you Slytherin?"

Ron flushed. "No! It did that for Harry, not me!"

"Right, whatever you say, Mr. Crimson."

"Goodnight, Dean," said Neville.

"Goodnight."

Harry spent some time worrying about Potions Class; if Professor Snape hated him as much as it looked like he did, Harry was sure he'd have a new Thursday on Friday. He really didn't want two Thursdays in a week, even if Tuesday was Magical Tuesday.

There were owls hunting outside the tower, their inaudible wings untroubled by thoughts of Thursdays.

_I should visit Iris_, thought Harry as he drifted off to sleep.


	7. Chapter 7: The Lies

Harry Potter and the Garden of Intrigue

Being an exploration of the differences in Mr. Potter's life pursuant to his understanding victorian flower language at age 11. Single Point-of-Departure: Harry has a working lightbulb in his cupboard.

Harry Potter, all related characters, and the original Harry Potter narative are properties of J. K. Rowling.

Chapter 7

The Lies

Harry awoke to Iris, dropping a note on his bed. He fed her an Owl Snack. The note was from Hagrid; he wanted to meet harry in the afternoon, after Potions Class and luncheon.

"Augh, Potions today," said Harry.

"Yeah, with Slytherin," agreed Ron.

"Come on, you're looking forward to it. You get to hang out with Mr. Stalker."

"And you get to hang out with Draco Movie Villain Name Malfoy."

"Hey! That's not his permanent nickname!"

Ron shrugged. "Only one he's got right now, unless you let me call him a git."

Harry shook his head.

"Then Movie Villain Name it is. Honestly, Harry, you're a great guy to have around."

"Oh?" Dean Thomas was awake. "Why's that, then?"

"Morning, Dean. Harry's the best at making nicknames, right?"

"Oh, yeah, absolutely." Dean pointed at himself. "The Dean of Awesome has proclaimed it."

Neville screamed.

"What? What?" Harry rushed over. "You're not on fire, what's wrong?"

"Today is Potions Day," said Neville, by way of explanation. He looked as though he were going to faint. "We've got to learn from Snape."

"Yeah, Ron keeps saying he's a horrible minion of darkness, worked for the evil, that sort of thing. Plus he makes my head ache when he looks at me," agreed Harry. "But Dumbledore hired him, right? He can't be that bad."

"Och, don't doom yourself, Harry," objected Seamus. "Five gets you a Sickle you'll regret those words."

* * *

Harry regretted those words.

When he'd walked into the Potions room (which was in and of itself a rather pleasant subterranean structure, lined with shelves upon groaning shelves of strange components), he'd had the misfortune of looking Professor Snape directly in the eyes. It had given him a pain more intense than any he remembered, not counting nightmares, and the sensation that his brain was being _tickled _by a sadist. Harry immediately revised his opinion of Professor Snape from 'rather unpleasant fellow' to 'incarnation of Death who stalks the halls seeking innocent souls to devour', with the addendum _hates my blood_ for good measure. Harry decided that Professor Snape deserved the same level of Do Not Cross that Professor McGonagall received, with added Scarier.

During roll call, Professor Snape paused at Harry's name.

"Harry Potter," he hissed. "Our newest... Celebrity."

Harry wasn't sure what to say to that, so he waited for something to happen. He'd taken a seat between Ron and Hermione; Ron had managed to team up with Mr. Stalker, while Malfoy shared a space with Mr. Loom behind them. Neville and Dean had taken station to Hermione's left, hoping for advice if things went horribly wrong. Harry wasn't sure where Seamus was sitting.

Snape started the lesson with a short dissertation on the subtle power of potions, claiming to stopper death, bottle fame, brew glory; then he called them all dunderheads. Harry glanced at Hermione. Her eyes were almost as scary as Professor Snape's, although they didn't give Harry headaches; there was a fire there, a burning desire to prove she was _smart_.

_As though she hadn't already._

Snape suddenly stared at Harry, _ow_, and Harry had a sharp stabbing sensation bloom in his skull, almost as though someone had driven a knife right through his scar. _The jury is in, Snape hates me,_ thought Harry.

"Potter!" snapped Snape. "What would I get if I added powdered root of Asphodel to an infusion of Wormwood?"

_Asphodel is a type of lily, translating as 'mourning' or 'my regrets follow you to the grave.' And infusion of wormwood would be 'intense bitter sorrow,' or 'intense absence.' Bitter regrets follow lily to the grave... _"I.. Uh.. That.." Harry couldn't seem to say what he wanted to say. This man hated him so intensely that it _hurt_, but had he just claimed to regret the death of Harry's mother?

Harry was so distracted that he missed most of Snape's next question.

"- a Bezoar?" Snape's expression promised nothing but pain for anything less than a correct answer. _What about a Bezoar? What it is? What to mix it with to make a Potion of Pecuniary Gain?_

Hermione clearly knew the answer - but Snape only had eyes _full of hate_ for Harry. "Er.. sorry?"

"Wrong, Potter."

_Ow,_ thought Harry, at another twinge of pain. _Promise fulfilled_.

Snape didn't look happy, although that was hardly new. He wasn't done with his ritualistic humiliation of Harry, either. "What is the difference between Monkshood and Wolfsbane?"

_Chivalry and Misanthropy_. "You mean Helmet Flower, sir?"

Snape paused for a moment before answering. "Yes, Potter," he sneered. "Answer."

"They're the same flower, sir," stammered Harry, wracking his brain for the entries from his Aunt Petunia's book on Flower Language. He'd been interested in Monkshood because it kept looping him around the book, looking for the meaning under another name, and another, and another. "Just different names and meanings. It's called Wu Tou in China."

Snape's eyes didn't exactly narrow, since that would have required several violations of conventional physics, but his demeanor certainly became colder. Harry suspected that Professor Snape didn't need to cast a Cooling Charm to chill things down. "Correct. It seems you're not entirely useless, Potter, but fame clearly isn't everything..." Snape shook his head, as though in despair at the state of his new student. "For your information, Potter, wormwood and asphodel create a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A Bezoar is a stone found in a goat's stomach, and will save you from most poisons. And yes, Monkshood and Wolfsbane are the same plant, also known as Aconite. Ten points from Griffindor for your ignorance."

Harry was still in shock from the rapid revelations, but he was no longer alone; Hermione and Ron, not to mention the rest of the Gryffindor side of the class, had joined him in shock, outraged at the sudden loss of points for their shared House.

"Ten points _from _Gryffindor? You got one of them right, right mate?"

Hermione, surprisingly, had similar ideas. "How can he do that? Ignorance - you know more about the names of Aconite than he does!"

Harry decided it would be a bad idea to cause trouble in Snape's class, given Snape's reaction to compliance. "Let's just do the work today, alright? I'd rather not spend my first Friday in Hogwarts doing quintuple detention."

Ron and Hermione clearly believed he was out of his mind, but Ron shrugged and said "whatever you say, mate." Mr. Stalker contrived through surprisingly evocative hand signals that he was surprised at this unfortunate development as well, although regrettably he could take no action to ameliorate the loss to House Gryffindor as it constituted a direct benefit to House Slytherin.

Harry wondered again how Gregory managed to get such a huge vocabulary at the age of eleven.

* * *

Somehow, Harry managed to stumble through the rest of the class without exploding his cauldron, although his Boil Boiling potion was decidedly subpar. Hermione looked as though she'd like to explode, herself, but her cauldron's contents earned full marks at the end of the lesson. Neville was still trembling.

"Where does that greasy git get off, bearing into you like that?" Ron fumed, his face once again taking the identity of Mr. Crimson.

"He was hard on all of us, Mr. Crimson," said Mr. Stalker. "Gryffindor and Slytherin alike."

"I didn't have any trouble with him," trumpeted Draco, "maybe the rest of you really are dunderheads."

"Oh, come off it, Malfoy." Ron was bitter, partly because his potion had turned out to make the boils worse. "It's obvious he was giving you favoritism, no surprise there, I mean you're the poster boy for First-Year Slytherin! Hermione's potion was perfect, and Snape tore into her plenty."

Hermione was a little red around the eyes from holding in her tears during class; after getting full marks, she seemed to be doing a bit better, but she hadn't earned any points for Gryffindor - a personal worst.

"Who cares what Granger does?" Malfoy was still riding high on the wings of the avian _Professorial Favorus_, and hadn't bothered paying attention to anyone who wasn't either famous or rich.

"We care," said Neville, who'd narrowly avoided an explosive cauldron himself by quietly asking Hermione for advice. "She's the Queen of Knowledge, you know."

Mr. Loom chuckled.

"And you're her loyal subjects, is that it?" Malfoy sniggered, prompting another loyal chuckle from Mr. Loom. "Maybe you should go play court, supplicant peasants to your Queen."

Harry thought that it had been funnier when he'd said that.

"Oy, Malfoy, maybe you ought to play court with your Slytherin friends, and leave us out of it," advised Ron.

"Maybe you'll even earn a title of your own, eh?" grinned Seamus, shamelessly.

Draco reddened. "I've already got one!" It looked as though he'd reach for his wand, but instead he just took a deep breath and turned away from them. "Not a bad idea, though, I've always wanted a private court."

"Hey, Ron, if he does that you won't be able to introduce Mr. Stalker to your brothers."

Harry panicked. "Dean! Ixnay on the Ocalypse-apay!"

Dean hung his head. "Sorry, Harry. Forgot about the rules."

"What rules?" asked Draco, forgetting his taunts for a moment. "Did I miss something while you were all off being Gryffindors for a week?"

"Yeah, lots of stuff. Hermione was crowned Queen of Knowledge; her full title is Her Imperial Higness, Hermajesty, Master of all Human Knowledge." Mr. Loom chuckled again. "But we like to call her Hermajesty for short. She knows pretty much everything about everything - you should have been there for Defense Against the Dark Arts, she pretty much taught the class..."

* * *

At lunch, Harry tried to sit at Slytherin table. The Weasley twins prevented him by dragging him bodily to the Gryffindor side of the Hall.

"Come on, Harry-"

"Can't have you fraternizing with the enemy, you know-"

"Too right, too right, and of course they might tell him-"

"Not that there's anything to tell, of course-"

"All right, all right, I'll sit with you guys," said Harry. "Put me down, will you?"

"Now, Mr. Potter, we couldn't possibly let you go until we've seen you safe to your destination."

"Wouldn't be proper bodyguard behaviour, am I right?"

"Of course you are," approved Percy, showing them to their seats. Draco sent a flying note to Harry, expressing his 'deepest regrets' that Harry was unable to join them at their repast. Harry wrote a reply on the back of the note, inviting Draco to come with him to Hagrid's after luncheon, and convinced Fred to send the note back over.

"Come on, FredandGeorge, how can I prank Slytherin if I don't understand how they think?"

"Well, he's got you there, Fredand."

"Well enough, Andgeorge."

Percy tried to fight a smile without much success.

Ron objected to inviting Draco, however. "He doesn't get on with Hermione at all, Harry. This is going to be terrible!"

"Remember I had Hagrid take care of my spiders, Ron. Hermione doesn't like spiders. She's not going."

Ron stopped eating. "Did you have to mention those... jar... here?" He swallowed. "Come to think of it, Seamus said he's going to taunt the giant squid today, I might just go with him..."

"Come on, Ron, you want to come along. If it's just me and the Magic Mafia, they'll probably convert me to Slytherin or something."

Ron blanched. Percy nearly fainted.

The Twins agreed; "Ron, you've got to do it."

"For the sake of Gryffindor."

"For Britain."

"For the World."

"For Mum's biscuits."

"For three Knuts an hour."

"Fine, I'll do it," said Ron. "But you'd better be serious about the three Knuts."

"Oh, absolutely."

"We wouldn't think of charging family any more than that."

Ron blinked. "Hey!"

Harry decided to intervene on behalf of Mr. Crimson. The proper action, of course, was distraction. "FredandGeorge, does Snape ever ask you completely random questions?"

"You do," suggested Ron.

The Twins exchanged glances. "Well, aside from being a greasy git-"

"And Potions, generally, the fumes do tend to drive one a bit batty-"

"Which fits Snape to an S-"

"No, not really."

Harry explained the Potions Pop Quiz that Snape had treated him to.

"Well, Harry," said Percy, once again demonstrating his penchant for rapid recoveries, "That's pretty unusual. I'm sure he had his reasons, of course, you never know when you'll find a Potions Prodigy-"

"Like Hermione," interjected Harry.

"Yes, like Hermione. The Draught of Living Death is a very potent potion, very dangerous; I'm surprised Hermione even knew about it."

Harry wasn't.

"Still, Professor Snape usually does get pretty strict when he's teaching Gryffindors."

"A little?"

"Brother ours," said Fred...and, draping an arm around his elder brother's shoulders, "you don't seem to appreciate the depth to which Old Snapekins will sink-"

"When there's a House Cup on the line," concluded the opposite twin.


	8. Chapter 8: The Truth

Harry Potter and the Garden of Intrigue

Being an exploration of the differences in Mr. Potter's life pursuant to his understanding victorian flower language at age 11. Single Point-of-Departure: Harry has a working lightbulb in his cupboard.

Harry Potter, all related characters, and the original Harry Potter narative are properties of J. K. Rowling.

Chapter 8

The Truth

Harry had stopped by the Thunder Room to pick up Aunt Petunia's book on flower language; he wanted to double-check some of the meanings, just in case it turned out that Snape actually had meant what Harry thought he had said in Potions class.

Harry was hoping he'd run into Draco on his way to Hagrid's hut, too. Admittedly, Ron didn't care for the pale boy, but Mr. Movie Villain Name knew all _kinds_ of things about the wizarding world that even Ron hadn't been aware of, and Harry didn't see any reason not to have both of them as friends.

"So," said Ron. "Where does Hagrid live, exactly?"

Harry fished the note out of his robes. "Er... Small wooden house on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Although considering it's Hagrid, small might be the wrong word."

Ron snorted. "Compared with the castle, though, I mean it's not like he's a giant."

Harry had actually thought exactly that. "He's not? I mean, how big are giants?"

"Should've brought Hermione for that one, mate." Ron elbowed him. "Tall as the trees, my dad says."

Harry thought for a moment. "So Hagrid might be half-giant?" It seemed plausible, now that he thought about it...

"_There_ you are." Draco Malfoy and his Goons were bearing down on Harry and Ron, seemingly from nowhere. "I was afraid I'd be too late to talk you out of this."

"Talk me out of what?" asked Harry, confused.

Draco rolled his eyes. "You're going to have tea with the _gamekeeper_. That's not a good move, Harry. You'll lose points."

Harry was still confused. "Uh... what?"

"Harry, Harry," Draco moved to put an arm around Harry's shoulder in what he assumed was a conspiratorial fashion, but was rebuffed by Mr. Crimson.

"Mind your distance, Malfoy," challenged Ron. He'd forgotten about the Goons for a moment.

"Oh?" Malfoy relaxed into a slouching, indolent posture. "I thought we were all friends here, Weasley, but if you _really_ want to make an enemy of the Ancient and most Honorable House..." Mr. Loom was living up to his name from directly behind Ron, and Mr. Stalker had fixed him with a most disconcerting stare.

"Just looking out for Harry is all," muttered Ron, realizing he was outnumbered. "Say what you like, Malfoy, but Harry knows good friends from bad." Harry, who didn't, said nothing.

"Right. Harry," said Draco again, turning back to Harry, "Hagrid's a nobody. He's got no influence, he never even finished Hogwarts, he's not a real _wizard_, Harry." Harry waited for the point. "If you waste your time making friends with someone so... _low_, you won't be able to succeed in life. I'm just looking out for you, you know."

"Low?" Harry was rather less confused than before, but he still didn't want to see what Draco was getting at. "Hagrid's the tallest man I've ever met."

Draco rolled his eyes again. "I mean he's _socially_ low. He's got no status, Harry. He's just Dumbledore's hound, nothing more."

Harry remembered his birthday, remembered Hagrid bringing him into the world of magic; he knew that there was more to Hagrid than Draco had seen. "I think you're wrong, Draco. Hagrid brought me into the wizarding world. I owe him."

Draco put his hand to his face. "Dear Merlin, you're already one of them."

Harry was confused again.

"Fine! Have tea with the gamekeeper!" Draco flung his arms over his head. "I give up!"

"So... are you coming with us?"

"I ... What?"

Harry repeated the question.

Draco stared at him.

"I mean, Hagrid's a great guy, really, even if he's not allowed to use magic, or control wizard politics, um," Harry swallowed, trying to think of something else to say. "And he makes great tea, I mean, the best I've ever had." It was true. Harry had never had decent tea in his life until the day he'd met Hagrid.

Draco kept staring at him.

"Come on, Ron, help me out here..." Harry suddenly realized that Ron had walked off with Mr. Stalker whole _minutes_ ago. "RON! NO!" Harry grabbed Draco's arm and ran in the general direction that he'd last seen Ron and Mr. Stalker.

"What-"

"Apocalypse! Code Apocalypse," cried Harry, desperately. Draco, having been informed of Harry's peculiar fears before lunch, simply rolled his eyes again.

* * *

Mr. Loom was already looming at the scene when Harry and Draco arrived. Ron and Mr. Stalker were lounging on the side of one of the larger boulders.

"Ron! No no no no no, tell me I'm not too late, Ron!" begged Harry, nearly in tears.

Ron looked a bit shifty for a moment, then came to a decision. "Alright, you're not too late." Harry collapsed in relief.

"He's lying, Harry," supplied Draco. Ron flushed.

"Say that again, Malfoy!"

Draco felt as though he were rolling his eyes rather too frequently today. "He's lying, Harry," he repeated, his voice heavy with boredom.

Harry's face betrayed that Harry felt betrayed. "Why, Ron?"

Ron muttered something unintelligible.

"What?"

"Mr. Crimson is attempting to inform you that, despite your misgivings, a liason between myself and Mr. Crimson's elder brothers will not have an appreciable likelihood of destroying Hogwarts or its residents." Mr. Stalker brushed off the front of his robes. "However, in the interest of reducing complications, allow me to assure you that no action will be taken by myself or Mr. Loom pursuant to egregious breach of discipline, or to bodily harm or threat thereof, most particularly regarding our direct employer."

Harry boggled. "What?"

"He's not going to blow up the castle, Harry," clarified Ron. "Get over it! If anything, he'll make my brothers _less_ dangerous."

Harry realized the entire universe was conspiring against him, fabricating an inevitable apocalypse to destroy the only place he'd ever felt at home. _That doesn't make any sense_, thought Harry. He sat down. "Why do you talk like that, Greg?" Harry asked, latching onto a question that had bothered him on and off for the past week.

Mr. Stalker grinned, pulling a small, silvery object from his robes. He handed it to Harry, who stared at it.

"_Legaliser MK IX,_ Boffo's Joke Emporium?" Harry recalled seeing a shop in Diagon Alley with an enormous sign that had borne that name. And of course FredandGeorge had more Boffo products than Vernon Dursley (had he been so inclined) could have stuffed into an industrial garbage scow. "To what purpose does this device bear such an antiquated, obtuse, and obfuscating moniker?" Harry paused. "Furthermore, to what end has my vociferation been altered, and by what means has this modification been instigated?"

Greg took the _Legaliser_ back.

"Whoa," said Harry. "So that thing makes you talk all fancy?"

Draco was staring as well. "You told me your father made special arrangements, Goyle!"

"My statement was essentially accurate, Mister Malfoy," replied Gregory. "However, it was designed to be mistaken in ultimate meaning due to the context in which it was presented. The arrangements of which you were previously apprised were, in fact, merely the purchase and use of this device. Which, although decidedly effective, is only a short-term solution. Further study will permit me to duplicate the effects observed here in circumstances otherwise inacessible to such vocal modifications." He flicked the back of the _Legaliser_. "But even though I'm not good at legal-speak on my own yet, I'm better than I was before I got this."

"You should see your faces," said Ron. "You look like you just got front-row seats to a Banshee singing opera!"

Draco flushed. Harry, meanwhile, decided that there was no point trying to keep Mr. Stalker away from FredandGeorge; after all, when you add infinity to infinity, you just get infinity.

* * *

"No, Harry, I don't want to visit Hagrid with you." Draco had been protesting for almost three minutes.

Harry _harrumphed_.

"I don't care if he makes the best tea in Scotland! I've got a reputation to think about, it's not like I can just be friends with all the half-drunk layabouts Dumbledore keeps on payroll!"

Ron _Grahumphed_.

"What does that even _mean?_"

Mr. Loom chuckled.

"Shut up, Crabbe," snapped Draco. "Look, everybody expects me to be the best Slytherin there is, alright? I'm stretching my limits just by being seen with a Weasley." Ron _Gahrumphed_ again. "See what I mean? I'll have to tell the others I was taunting you or something." Draco took a deep breath, gathering his resolve. "I won't go with you to visit that great brute, Harry."

"What great brute?"

Draco quickly recalculated his choice of words. "His dog."

Harry pondered that for a moment. "Well, if that's the way it's going to be, I guess it can't be helped." He stuck out his hand. "See you around, Draco."

Draco shook it gingerly. "Not if I see Weasley first," he joked.

"Same to you," shouted Ron, already halfway to the lake. Harry thought he heard Ron mutter something about a 'green sagit,' but since that didn't make any sense, he ignored it.

* * *

It was a longer walk than Harry had expected, going to Hagrid's house. Around the lake, across the greensward, past the trembling vines, and then along the edge of the forest.

"He doesn't really keep spiders out here, does he, Harry?" Ron sounded a bit nervous.

Harry shrugged. "This is the first time I've been out this way, Ron. I don't know if he's got spiders, dragons, or a house on fire!"

"That was just Malfoy being petty, Harry, Hagrid's not going to light his house on fire."

Harry felt a little sheepish at that. "I didn't mean it like that. Maybe Hagrid has a phoenix coop? That would have to catch on fire sometimes, right?"

Ron smacked himself in the forehead. "Phoenixes aren't chickens, Harry. Nobody keeps them in coops." He paused. "Except Uncle Osmond, of course. Poor old Uncle Osmond." Ron shook his head at the memory.

Harry would've pressed for more details about Uncle Osmond's phoenix coop, but they had finally arrived at Hagrid's house.

"Great ter see yeh again, Harry!" Hagrid had hustled them inside faster than Harry could say Hello Hagrid, and was bustling about his fireplace to make some fresh tea.

"Hello, Hagrid," said Harry, feeling as though he really ought to say it anyhow. "Sorry it's just me and Ron, but I was trying to get Draco to come too, and well, Hermione hates Draco more than Ron hates spiders."

"Harry, _nobody_ hates _anything_ more than I hate spiders." Ron had taken a seat by Hagrid's table, which was made from what looked like three tree trunks and a slab of granite.

"Okay, half as much then. Anyway. Hogwarts is _amazing_." Harry took a seat next to Ron, and found Hagrid's enormous dog snoozing away beneath his chair. "Nice dog."

"Ah, that's just Fang. Don' mind him, he's a big softie," explained Hagrid, fishing three mismatched mugs from a shelf on the wall. Harry tried to ignore Fang, but his let foot had already been pinned by a lazy flop of the beast's ear. "Ter be honest, Harry, I din' expect yeh'd be makin' friends with Draco Malfoy. 'E's the son of ol' Lucius, o' course, Ron's probably filled you in on that son of a ... mother."

Harry sighed. "We're not really good friends yet, I mean we just met on the train, and then there was Potions today..." Harry thought about Malfoy's behaviour after Potions. "He's kind of a bully, when you get down to it." He shuddered. "I'd rather not make an enemy out of him, though."

Ron snorted again. "Harry, his father was You-Know-Who's right hand man! Malfoy's probably just pretending to be friends so he can keep tabs on you!"

Hagrid nodded at that. "Yeh can't trust a Malfoy, Harry. Plenty of wizards learned that the hard way, back in the war. Tea's up."

"Thanks," said Harry, referring to both the tea and Hagrid's advice. "I'll try to remember." He took a sip of his steaming tea.

"Hey, Hagrid," Ron was shifting about uncomfortably, glancing about the room. "You don't keep any spiders in here, do you?"

Hagrid gave Ron a look. Then he sat down, added a shot of something powerful-smelling to his tea, and took a large gulp. "Nah," he explained.

Harry recalled his pet spiders. "Er, Hagrid?"

"Yeh, Harry?"

"What are you doing with Madame Pinch and Back Off You? And the Skipper?"

Hagrid took another swig of his modified tea. "Sent 'em to live with Aragog. He'll make sure they don't run into anything they can't handle."

Harry and Ron both relaxed, knowing that Harry's spiders were safely away from Hagrid's house. Ron, primarily because they were _away_ from Hagrid's house.

"So, Harry, Ron," said Hagrid, leaning forward with a gleam in his eye. "How was yer first week in Hogwarts?"

They told him.

* * *

"Really? Tha' bad, eh?" Harry had just finished giving Hagrid his accound of their first Potions lesson.

"Yeah," agreed Ron, "it was intense. Fred says Snape's just trying to keep Gryffindor away from the house cup, but Percy - and this is the _only_ time I'm going to say this," he said, glaring at Harry and Hagrid for emphasis, "so don't go telling Fred or George. Or Percy, for that matter."

Harry waited a few seconds as Ron helped himself to a third butter roll. "Tell them what?"

"Oh, right. Well, Percy thinks it was pretty weird for Snape to go so spare on Harry on his first day like that. Figures it's something personal." Ron held out his mug. "Can I have some more tea? This stuff's delicious." Hagrid complied, and Ron continued. "So I was thinking, maybe Percy's right."

Harry waited a few more seconds. Hagrid pulled a small pie out of one of his innumerable coat pockets, cut it into thirds, and ate it.

"What flavor was that?" Ron inquired, eyeing the remnants of the pie.

Hagrid pulled two more out of what looked like the same pocket. "Eel." He held them out to Harry and Ron. "Most folk don' like 'em, on account of the texture. But if yeh've got strong teeth there's none better."

Ron accepted the pie. Harry stared at his, wondering if his teeth were strong enough. "Ron," he asked, "what do you think Snape's got against me?"

Ron shrugged. "Dunno. Maybe he's mad you offed You-Know-Who?"

"Now, Ron, Snape's a scunner and no mistake, but he's not sorry ter see that one gone." Hagrid was staring at them with a very serious expression on his face. "He was on our side in the war, he was. Spied on the Death Eaters, pretended he was one of 'em, even fooled You-Know-Who 'imself." Ron tried to say something around a mouthful of pie. "I know what yeh're sayin, Ronald. But Dumbledore trusted Snape. Still does, come ter think on it. If it weren't for Snape, we'd have lost the war long before you came around, Harry."

Harry was stunned.

Ron, who had finally finished chewing, was not. "Yeah, but he's still a greasy git. He's completely unfair to everyone but Slytherin!"

"Don' talk that way about yer teachers, Ron," advised Hagrid. "Leastwise not where they can hear yeh."

Harry had an idea. "Hagrid," he said, pulling out his book on flower language, "I think you're right." Ron started to object. "I think you're right, too, Ron." Harry laid the tome down on the table in front of them, pushing the eel pie aside.

"What's that?"

Harry smiled. "When Snape was asking me all those questions, I knew what he was saying."

Ron goggled. "Why didn't you answer him, then?"

Harry coughed. "I mean, I knew the plants he was talking about. Look. Wormwood, and here," he turned to a different page, "Asphodel."

Hagrid looked. "This a Muggle book, Harry?"

"Yes," confirmed Harry. "My Aunt Petunia let me borrow it, probably the nicest thing she's ever done for me. Look at the meanings of these flowers, though."

They looked.

"Wormwood's bitterness, that fits Snape well enough," said Ron.

"Yeh pegged 'im on that one, Ron," nodded Hagrid.

"And look here," said Harry, pointing to the Asphodel entry earlier in the book. "It says that Asphodel is a type of lily. And the meaning is 'my regrets follow you to the grave.'"

Hagrid said absolutely nothing. The way he didn't say it, however, made Harry feel as though there was an awful lot going unsaid. "Ron says Snape used to work as a Death eater, so even if he was just a spy for our side, he'd have to do some death-eatery things, right?"

Hagrid said an even louder nothing.

"And the way he said it, look, it was an infusion of bitter sorrow holding his regrets for Lily. D'you think he felt responsible somehow?" Hagrid's silence grew until Harry couldn't hear anything else. "Hagrid, Please, I know you know something."

"A'right, a'right, I can't handle yer faces." Hagrid drained his mug, then slammed it down with a _Crash_ that woke Fang. "Snape wasn' involved with the attack on Godric's Hollow that nigh', Harry. It was jus' You-Know-You inside the house." Another resounding silence. Hagrid took a deep breath and pulled his hand across his face. "He migh've said somethin' ter the evil, but he coudn've been the one that betrayed yer parents, Harry. So if 'e feels responsible, well, that's 'is business. He's not the one that showed You-Know-Who how to reach 'em." Hagrid sighed. "Although 'e never did like yer dad much, that's no secret."

Harry sat unmoving. Hagrid's explanation answered one question, barely, but raised so very many more. _Who betrayed my parents? What else does Hagrid know? Why did Snape hate my dad? Why does that feel like it's only half the reason why Snape hates me? _Harry's mind ran round in circles, trying to make answers to any of the questions that spiraled through him, but he couldn't come up with anything.

Ron, on the other hand, was full of ideas. "Maybe the other questions translate the same way?"

Harry was too busy trying to mash something coherent out of the whirling chaos that had overtaken his thoughts to reply.

Ron picked up the book. "Bezoar, bezoar, um, bay leaf, chamomile, no, birch..."

Hagrid put his hand over the book. "Bezoar's a cure for poison, righ'?"

Ron stared at him for a moment, then smacked himself in the face again. "Of course! Goat's stomach, it's not a plant at all!" He turned to Harry. "Hey, Harry, the third question. The one you got right. What do those plants mean?"

Harry remembered. "Aconite, means Rejected Love. Wolfsbane, means hatred of humanity. Monkshood, means chivalry. Helmet flower's the same meaning as Monkshood. They're all the same plant, anyways."

"Summat ter think abou', anyway." Hagrid started clearing away the dishes from their tea. "Gettin' on toward sunset, lads, yer ought ter clear out soon."

"Right, sorry, it was great to see you today, Hagrid." Harry felt as though he'd regret it if he didn't finish figuring out what Snape was about today, though. "Ron?"

Ron was staring at his spoon. "Snape's amazing," he murmured.

Harry gave him a concerned look. "Are you alright, Ron?"

"Great," said Ron. "Blimey, we'd never even know if you didn't speak Flower."

"I don't, it's just something -"

"Look," interrupted Ron. "Snape regrets your mom's death, he probably feels responsible for it, he feels responsible for _you_. He's describing himself in the last question. Rejected love, that's probably your mom again, hates everybody, but he's secretly a good guy. He was a double agent in the war, maybe a triple agent, that's what the three names of Aconite mean."

"Four names," corrected Harry.

"Good, you've been listening to Hermione. Keep at it."

"I didn't-"

"So Snape works for the evil, that's hatred of humanity, but he works for the good, too - that's chivalry. His real motive is love, that's rejected by your mom but he's not the type to let go of his feelings. And he told you how to cure poisons real fast."

"Thanks again, Hagrid. see you next week?"

"So basically, he's telling you that he's on your side, but secret, like it was in the war, and he's sad about your mom, and he feels responsible, and if somebody poisons you go straight for the bezoars. Which you can probably get in the cupboard, I think Hermione mentioned something about them earlier."

"Happy ter have yer, Harry. Mind Fang, he's taken a likin' ter yeh."

"So now you've got to come up with some kind of counter-sign to let him know you know what he knows, so you can get his help when you need it." Ron beamed at Harry. "When did we get outside?

"Hagrid said goodbye while you were talking. He sent the rest of our pies, too."

"Great, they're delicious," said Ron, biting into the pie.

Harry pondered what Ron had said as they walked up to the castle. It took him until Ron had eaten both eel pies to finish piecing together what Ron had figured out. "So, does that mean you're not going to complain when Snape gives you extra homework?

Ron cuffed him on the shoulder. "What are you, crazy? He's brilliant, but he's still a greasy git."

Harry sighed. "Well, at least I don't have to worry about Code Apocalypse anymore."

"Actually," admitted Ron, "I'm pretty sure combining Fred's chaos, George's pranks, and Greg's sneakiness is going to wind up destroying at _least_ half the castle by our fourth year."

"Yeeeaaargh!"


	9. Chapter 9: Interesting Times

Harry Potter and the Garden of Intrigue

Being an exploration of the differences in Mr. Potter's life pursuant to his understanding victorian flower language at age 11. Single Point-of-Departure: Harry has a working lightbulb in his cupboard.

Harry Potter, all related characters, and the original Harry Potter narative are properties of J. K. Rowling.

Chapter 9

Interesting Times

Harry didn't sleep that night. Ron had been nearly incoherent at Hagrid's, but Harry had a feeling he'd heard at least a few points that struck true.

_Snape loved my mom..._ it seemed ridiculous, impossible - but then, so had half the shops back in Diagon Alley. Not to mention Ron's relations and their phoenix coops. Harry tumbled thoughts around in his head until the sky began to lighten.

"I need to talk to Hermione," Harry mumbled, pulling his pillow over his head. The sun was spearing through the windows, making him very uncomfortable. "Go away, sun! Need sleep!"

Neville garbled out a phrase of incomprehensible commands, and the windows snapped shut, filling the room with darkness.

"Good thing it's Saturday," observed Seamus.

* * *

Harry didn't wake up until lunchtime. He was rather surprised that he'd slept in so long. _But_, he surmised, _this is the first time I've been able to sleep in of a morning since... Ever._

At lunch, Harry found Hermione sitting with Percy and a few other older students. She had three notebooks in front of her, mostly filled with very small handwriting; her pickled onion-and-toadstool sandwich hadn't even been touched.

"Hello Hermione," said Harry by way of greeting.

Hermione didn't even look up as she responded. "-so the interlock doesn't rely on- Hello, Harry- on the flavor of the spell at all?"

"Not even a little," confirmed a sandy-haired fourth-year. Harry sat down across the table.

"Hi, Percy."

"Hi, Harry."

Harry loaded his plate with the usual assortment of fantastic foods, wishing he hadn't slept through breakfast. Meanwhile, Hermione and her upperclassmen were still lost in conversation about Harry didn't know what.

"I've been having some trouble avoiding Code Apocalypse, Harry," confessed Percy, dropping out of the spell-babble for a moment. "I can manage Fred and George all right, but I think they've started using a go-between."

Harry glumly recalled the events of the previous day. "I don't think it really matters how hard we try to stop them, Percy, it'll only make them try harder. Mr. Stalker's already found out about the twins. Our only hope now is to convince them that the castle needs to stay intact..."

Percy crooked an eyebrow, as if to say 'good luck, you poor deluded fool,' and rejoined the impossible conversation around Hermione. Harry, reflecting on the ineffable course of destiny and its relation to the assorted cheeses on his plate, started nibbling as he waited for a chance to talk to his smartest friend.

* * *

"Hermione! Hermione!" Harry was running out of breath, trying to run _and_ shout at the same time. Usually, back in the Muggle world, he'd kept to just running, on the grounds that nobody was going to come save him even if he shouted himself hoarse. Trying to catch a preoccupied Hermione, however, was an entirely different kettle of nargles than running from Dudley and his gang. For one thing, Harry was the one pursuing, instead of the one pursued; he'd never really appreciated the tactical insight his cousin had had to have to corner him so effectively every day for the past ten years. "Hermione! Wait!"

Hermione was still almost twelve yards ahead, her nose stuck in a book. She had her hands full with her notebooks, and she'd done something to her pencil - it kept flitting down from behind her right ear to the top notebook and scribbling something, probably notes about whatever she'd just read. Harry shouted again.

"Hermione! Please!"

Hermione finally startled out of her fugue, pausing in mid-stride as she tried to remember what it meant when somebody called your name. Fortunately, she had a magnificent memory, and Harry hadn't even reached her by the time she turned around.

"What, Harry?" She looked a bit annoyed.

_Right, I interrupted her while she was studying. _"Sorry, er, I've been calling at you for almost five minutes."

Hermione's brow wrinkled momentarily as she cross-indexed her subjective view of time with Harry's equally subjective external perceptions. "Really?"

"Well, nearly." Harry tilted sideways slightly, trying to catch his breath. "I've got to talk to you about Bezoars."

Hermione's expression immediately turned to sympathy. "Of course, Harry, what do you want to know?"

Harry took a deep breath. "Well, it's not just about Bezoars, I mean, Ron and I were talking about yesterday's Potions class, and we came up with some interesting ideas about flowers, and I didn't really follow everything he said so I figured I should talk to you," another deep breath, "because you're the smartest person I know, as far as I know, and I need some help figuring out what Ron was talking about and what it all means and can we go somewhere quieter?"

Hermione's expression had slumped from sympathetic to confused during Harry's spiel, but quickly rebounded to earnestly helpful. _Or is it helpfully earnest?_ Harry couldn't really tell, and it really didn't matter.

"Certainly, Harry," agreed Hermione. "I'd be happy to help you figure it out. Let's walk to the library."

Harry agreed.

* * *

_I have no idea what she's talking about_, though Harry, not for the first time. He'd been trying to pay attention to Hermione's friendly ramblings, but honestly he had no idea what she meant by 'indexing temperaments' or 'spell-flavor matrices,' not to mention 'intergraph reticulation.' _At least she's not asking me to remember any of this._

"Oh, look, the library!" Harry rushed forward to the door, holding it open for Hermione and her armloads of books.

"Thank you, Harry. Do you think we should start in the Herbology section, or the Potion-making section?"

Harry had to think for a moment before he realized she was referring to his earlier explanation. "The Potions section, I think." Harry patted his bag. "I've brought a book of my own for the flowers."

Harry was a bit unnerved when Hermione led him to a small table in the middle of the Potions section.

"Er, Hermione? Weren't we looking for a quiet place to talk?"

Hermione waved a hand in dismissal of his concerns. "This _is_ a library, Harry. It's quiet everywhere. Besides which, this table has a built-in privacy charm. It's for students that need to talk while they study, it should be perfect for a private conversation."

Harry had to agree, since Madam Pince hadn't borne down on them for opening their mouths yet. The thought of the cantankerous Hogwarts Librarian reminded him of his old acquaintance, Madame Pinch; on contemplation, Harry was rather surprised at the similarities in character between his friendly spider and the overprotective librarian. He had decided never to tell Hermione about it, though, especially after her initial confusion over their names.

"Alright, Harry," interjected Hermione, having settled her books before her. Harry noticed a few additions from the nearby shelves. "What could Ron have possibly said that would need _me_ to translate it for you?"

Harry explained.

* * *

"Wait, Professor Snape was sending you secret messages about your mother by asking you _difficult questions_?"

Harry nodded.

"And Ron thinks," Hermione snorted a bit at this statement, "that Professor Snape is secretly on your side." She'd filled almost twelve pages with notes while Harry related the tale of Tea at Hagrid's.

Harry nodded again.

"And you believe this because you've got a book on Victorian Flower Language, which, Harry," she fixed him with a concerned gaze, "has never been a very _complete_ language, you understand."

Harry had actually cross-referenced a few of the elements in Snape's message, if message it was, with a book from the Hogwarts Library, just to be sure the flowers didn't have a special dialect for Wizards. They didn't. Harry nodded again.

Hermione checked her notes. "So you wanted me to make sure Ron wasn't going _completely_ insane when he made those assumptions." The pages of her notebook _flipped_ back and forth as she compared information. "And to find out if Bezoars had any tricky meanings."

Harry felt that nodding was getting a bit old, so he shrugged instead.

The notebook _flipped_ again, and two of the books on potions joined it.

"Well?"

"Bezoars are aggregations of matter mixed with stomach acids, usually stonelike in appearance; they come in a wide variety of materials and sizes. There's also something called a Trichinobezoar..." Hermione made a retching sound, "which I'm pretty sure isn't what he was referring to."

"And they cure poisons?"

Hermione nodded, which made Harry feel a bit better about his own recent behaviour. "Only certain types of Bezoar, and muggles don't usually have enough latent magic to activate the Bezoar's curative and purgative effects, but..." Harry was staring at her with a mildly glazed expression. "Nevermind. Yes, they cure poisons, but only for wizards."

Harry pondered this information for a minute. "Is there anything else about Bezoars that might mean something to Snape?"

"Nothing I can see. I doubt Professor Snape is old enough to have met Ibn Zuhr, and there's really nothing else in their history that looks interesting."

"Oh."

Hermione tried to console him by patting his arm. It wasn't very effective. "Well, Harry, if Professor Snape really was trying to tell you something, maybe the bezoar was just a bit of good advice?"

Harry nodded, still feeling a little glum. "That's what Ron was saying." Not noticing that Hermione's expression suddenly became quite fixed, he continued. "I guess he really knows what he's talking about, then." Harry started putting his books away. "Thanks, Hermione, you've been really helpful."

Hermione was still sitting very still, her arm still stiffly reaching across the table. "Er, Hermione? You all right?"

"Yes! Perfectly!" Hermione jerked her arm back to her side. "Anything else I can help you with, Harry?"

"Er," said Harry. "I'd like to figure out how to tell Snape I got his message, but I'm not sure where to start. Should I use flower language? Should I just tell him 'I got your message'?"

Hermione's rigid smile shattered into a genuinely friendly grin. "I'll put together a few ideas from the research we've done, and we'll go over them tomorrow, alright?"

Harry nodded. "See you later, Hermajesty," he intoned, bowing deeply and gathering his things.

* * *

The next morning, Harry discovered Ron feverishly assembling some kind of chaotic jumble across the back wall of the Thunder Room.

"Ron? What's that?"

Ron turned from his incomprehensible diagrams. "Oh, morning Harry," he slurred. "I've been working out everything I can from what Snape told you, look." Ron gestured vaguely at the web of twine that he'd constructed, and Harry noticed scribbled notes near almost every juncture of threads.

"So... what is it?"

Ron huffed a bit. "It's a conspiracy board, right? Got the idea from Dad, he's got one of these in the back of his workshop tracking muggle conspiracies about him."

Harry's eyebrows raised an inch.

"Got it from a muggle, if you believe it. Anyways I thought I should try to put my thoughts in order, since this whole Secret Message thing is obviously important somehow."

"Did you sleep last night?" Harry was still yawning himself.

Ron shrugged. "Nah. Too much to do."

Harry looked at the conspiracy board again. "Er, Ron, is it supposed to rearrange itself?"

Ron whirled on the board, whose threads were twisting into new and ever more maddening configurations. "PEEVES!"

"Hahahha, playing with string, ickle Griffindors? Maybe you're just kittens, not lions at all!" Peeves _whooshed_ out of the conspiracy board, bobbing through the floor between Ron and Harry.

"Aargh!" Ron clenched his fists in the air in a futile gesture of frustration. "That crazy- - -waste of time!"

"-Breakfast?"

"What?" Harry was a bit confused.

Seamus Finnigan waved at them from his bunk. "I said, shouldn't we all head down to breakfast?"

Ron punched the twisted ruins of his conspiracy theories. "Yeah, good idea, Seamus."

* * *

Most of Sunday was uneventful after that, although Harry was a bit surprised when he discovered that Hogwarts didn't have a chapel.

"It's not that strange, Harry," explained Percy. "Witches and Wizards were persecuted by most of the big religions in the days of the Founders, and there's still a lot of mistrust floating around out there. Godric Gryffindor couldn't really invite a priest to Hogwarts when all the priests were trying to burn our magic to the ground, see?"

Harry saw.

* * *

In the evening, Harry met up with Hermione and Ron to discuss his plans - and Hermione's plans - for returning Snape's message.

Hermione's idea to use Chestnuts - meaning 'do me justice' - was shut down by Ron, who pointed out that they also mean Luxury. Harry, meanwhile, thought Ron's idea to earn detention by blowing up Harry's cauldron with an Exploding Snap set was excitingly horrible.

"I mean, he might just kill me for being an idiot, and who knows what would happen to the potion?" reasoned Harry.

"I could probably work out a formula for next week's Lightening Liquid that makes an inert substance from the explosion," offered Hermione.

"Right on!"

Harry sighed. "No, just... no. Snape still hates me, even if he liked my mom, and I'd rather not give him a _real_ reason to punish me - you've seen how he is when I'm trying to behave!"

Hermione nodded glumly, and Ron grudgingly agreed.

"That's the best plan I could think of, though," admitted Ron.

"Don't worry, Hermione's got loads." Hermione nodded again, this time quite happily.

* * *

In the end, they settled on having Harry put a cherry blossom on his workspace - signifying that he had a 'good education' - and if that didn't work, he'd just have to fall back on Ron's Exploding Snap idea.

"It's a decent plan, Harry, I don't think Professor Snape can have you expelled for blowing up your cauldron."

"And if he gives you detention, it'll be all the more chance to find out what he's really up to."

"Yeah," grumbled Harry, "unless what he's really up to is trying to make me look bad and then punishing me whether I do or not. Those questions might have been coincidences, you know."

Ron and Hermione shared a glance. "We've been over this, mate. The odds that Snape would single you out - something he hasn't done to any other Gryffindor - and then ask questions that are so specific to you and to him?"

"Not likely, I know." Harry shot a look out the window. "D'you think Neville might be able to help with the plan? He's got a better head for flowers than any of us."

Hermione started to agree, but Ron interjected with "too many already, Harry. The more know a plan, the less likely it is to stay secret - and Snape definitely wanted that to stay secret."

"Which is why he told me in front of the entire class?"

"In a secret code!" objected Ron. "Which only you know!"

"Not that Professor Snape had any way of knowing that, of course."

"Of course."

"So we tell Neville?"

Ron shrugged. "Sure, why not?"


	10. Chapter 10: Failure

Harry Potter and the Garden of Intrigue

Being an exploration of the differences in Mr. Potter's life pursuant to his understanding victorian flower language at age 11. Single Point-of-Departure: Harry has a working lightbulb in his cupboard.

Harry Potter, all related characters, and the original Harry Potter narative are properties of J. K. Rowling.

Chapter 10

Failure

Harry and Ron had caught Neville in the Thunder Room Sunday evening. Surprisingly, Neville was unsurprised at Snape's secret communications.

"I know a bit of flower language, myself," admitted Neville. "I was just too terrified of the Professor to realize."

Neville's plan was beautifully simple: pass a note between Harry and Neville with a flower of asphodel, a blossom of wormwood, and a drawing of a broken heart between them, signed H.P. When Snape confiscated the note, as he inevitably would, he'd get the message.

Hermione was in a bad mood for some reason.

* * *

Harry joined Hermione in the dismal doldrums of despair when he checked the next week's schedule, only to discover that Potions class was going to move up to Thursdays... and stay there for the rest of the year.

"If we mess up on the plan, Thursdays are going to be, to be..." Harry's mind couldn't fathom the torment in store for him.

"Unpleasant?" offered Ron.

"Painful?" suggested Dean.

"Between Wednesday and Friday?" interjected Seamus.

"..._Horrible_," concluded Neville.

Harry nodded. "I've always had horrible Thursdays, though. But this would make Thursdays twice as bad, it'd be like _double Thursdays_." Harry trembled at the mere thought of it.

"No worries, Harry, today's only Tuesday. We've got all the time in the world to forget about Double Thursday."

"_Not helping_, Seamus," objected Harry miserably.

Neville said nothing in a way that suggested he was the only one that could have said anything at all.

"Thanks, Neville," Harry squeaked out after a few minutes. "The silence was appreciated."

Neville smiled. "I thought a moment of silence for Solitary Thursdays was in order. But at least we can share the load, now."

Ron, Seamus and Dean had already left for breakfast, but Harry took a moment to think about what Neville had just implied. "Hey, Neville, are you telling me you've had Thursdays too?"

"Every single one of 'em," agreed Neville. "Except the week before Hogwarts, for some reason."

"Huh."

* * *

That afternoon, following a rigorous session of Herbology and Transfiguration and an enormous Hogwarts-sized luncheon, the entire first-year class got together to learn broomstick-riding.

"Hermione," Harry began, as Ron was distracted with a preliminary examination of the school broom he'd been issued.

"You want to know why this class, and only this class, is held with the entire student body?"

"Well, yeah," agreed Harry.

"I don't know," admitted Hermione. "I've only read _Hogwarts: A History_ up to the mid-1800s, and they hadn't established this tradition at that time, since most children learned to ride from their parents."

Harry pondered this as Madam Hooch finished passing out the school brooms.

"What seems strange to me is how the school could have so _many_ brooms in storage," continued Hermione.

"Oh that one's easy," said Ron. "All the Hogwarts graduates that make it big in Quidditch, or in broom racing or broom-making, they send their old brooms back as donations 'in memory of their first broom class.'" He swept his ancient broom back and forth as though dashing out cobwebs. "Probably means there's a lot of half-broken ones, or that they haven't been re-varnished in the past hundred years."

Hermione shivered.

"Everybody, form two parallel lines _here_. Lay your brooms down on the ground in front of you, take a deep breath, and get ready, because today you're going to learn to FLY!"

Madam Hooch had finished passing out the brooms, and was wasting no time jumping into the lesson. Harry was a bit apprehensive - his skills in Herbology were decent, but none of the other Wizarding classes had given him anything like the feeling of competence he'd hoped for. Every time, he'd had to struggle just to get his magic flowing... maybe riding a broom was his hidden talent. Or maybe he'd fall off when he got twenty feet off the ground, and break his arm.

* * *

As it turned out, Harry had as much talent for brooms as he did for wand-work - that is to say, not much. His broom had given a little _hop_ when he'd commanded it to rise, while Hermione's had just rolled over and Neville's had actually driven down into the ground. Ron and Draco were the only students nearby that had pulled their brooms up on the first try.

Harry's broom did manage to reach his hand on the second try, although he'd expected another half-hearted _hop_ and grabbed down for it just in case. Within a few minutes, everybody had gotten their brooms to respond, and even Neville - though pale and fretful -had a good grip on the handle of his broom.

_Wait, that's more of a death-grip than a confident clasp_, thought Harry. "Neville, it's Tuesday. Tuesday's the good day, right?

Neville shook his head, very slowly, once. "Tuesday's the day my Uncle Bertie dropped me out the window."

"Wait, on purpose?"

Neville nodded, very slowly, once. Harry was beginning to see a pattern. "He was trying to scare some magic out of me, and I was scared he's scare _all _my magic out of me, but I bounced."

Harry smiled. "So you're the incredible Bouncing Neville, and falls aren't a problem for you?" Neville shook his head, slowly, and Harry cut him off halfway through this time. "Or you've got a fear of heights and you don't know how to do the bouncing thing again."

"R-right," stammered Neville.

Harry offered him a sympathetic look. "Look, if you fall again just panic. It worked last time, right?" Since this didn't seem to help, Harry continued. "Or just fly low, go slow, and take it easy. Can't fall hard if you don't go too high, right?" Neville _huffed_ glumly. Harry, for his part, couldn't think of anything else to say.

As they prepared to kick off, Harry noticed Neville clutching a small glass ball filled with red smoke - Harry remembered it as the Remembrall Neville had gotten in the morning mail from his Gran. _I guess he's trying to remember how to bounce,_ thought Harry.

Then Neville kicked off too soon, shot straight up fifty feet and fell on his arm in exactly the way that Harry had been worried _he'd_ fall, with the same sickening _crunch-squelch_ that Harry remembered from his seventh birthday, when Dudley had tried to give him a Birthday Batting with his cricket bat.

* * *

Neville's prostrate form, unmoving, had been escorted into the castle by Madam Hooch. As far as Harry could tell, she'd been levitating Neville's... body. _He's not dead, he can't be dead, they wouldn't let us do something that can kill us!_ Harry was panicking.

Draco, meanwhile, had picked up Neville's Remembrall. "Bad memory, cowardly, falls off his own broom... I'd ask how he ended up in Gryffindor," Draco drawled, "but they've got Weasley, too, so it's a bit of a no-brainer."

Mr. Crimson stepped forth. "What was that, Malfoy?"

Draco grinned in what might, with several years' practice and a good tutor, eventually resemble his namesake's disquietingly reptilian manner. "I rather think you heard me, Mr. Crimson. But enough about you; what should I do with Longbottom's trinket? Maybe I ought to ransom it. Mr Stalker?"

Gregory appeared at Draco's side in his customary _where-did-that-one-come-from_ way, his Legaliser in hand. "Although such a transaction would doubtless be profitable in the short term, Mr. Malfoy, I must advise against it. Extortionary practices would reflect poorly on your status as Prime Neophyte, especially in the presence of so many opposed factions."

Draco nodded. "Then you recommend subterfuge? Plausible deniability?"

His nod was mirrored by Gregory. "Phrase it carefully, Mr. Malfoy. The preponderance of witnesses in this locale necessitates cautious application of principle."

Harry wasn't following the exchange, not least because Mr. Stalker and Draco were speaking to each other quietly. Ron, on the other hand, could hear quite clearly by virtue of standing right in front of them.

"Hand it over, Malfoy. That's Neville's."

Draco glanced at Ron for a moment, then returned to his discussion with Mr. Stalker.

"I said hand it over, Malfoy!"

At this, Draco gave a sigh of affected longsuffering. "Really, Mr. Crimson, it's quite rude to interrupt a private conversation."

"What?"

"Go away." Draco made a dismissive gesture with his left hand, Neville's Remembrall still clutched firmly in his right.

Ron fumed for a moment, before rallying his considerable pig-headedness and proceeding as planned. "You're stealing Neville's Remembrall! Hand it over!"

"Really, Mr. Crimson, no need to shout." Draco tossed the Remembrall into the air, catching it in his left hand. "And who said anything about stealing?"

"Indeed," offered Mr. Stalker. "Unlawful appropriation of property is an entirely unwarranted accusation. Mr. Malfoy was merely considering the most efficacious method by which to return Mr. Longbottom's misplaced memento."

"Oooh, alliteration," murmured Hermione, who seemed rather impressed.

"He's cheating," Harry told her. "He's got a toy that makes him talk all fancy, he showed us on Friday."

Hermione seemed rather disappointed at that.

Meanwhile, Ron was waxing confused at Gregory's verbal circumlocutions. "What? You were talking about subterfuge and extortion!"

Draco tossed the Remembrall to himself again. "Really, Mr. Crimson, I take it back. You can't have heard me earlier if your ears are _that_ bad."

"WHAT?"

"You're a disgrace to Wizarding kind, Weasley," Draco concluded. "Take your stupid self elsewhere."

Harry was pretty sure Ron's head was hot enough to boil tea on at this point. He was also wondering why none of the other students were getting involved.

"Now if you'll excuse me-" Draco paused. "No, who cares what you think. I'm going to go put this where Longbottom can find it." Leaving Mr. Stalker to block Ron's furious advance, Draco called his broom to hand with a casual snap of his fingers.

"Wow, he makes that look so _easy_," Harry remarked.

Draco winked at the assembled students, ascended on his school-issue broom, and found a towering red-haired bundle of doom awaiting him. "Wha-"

"Not the only one who grew up with brooms, Movie Villain Name," sputtered Mr. Crimson. His own borrowed broom was shaking, although Harry couldn't tell if it was from rage, nerves, or poor construction.

Draco's face switched from smug overconfidence to total panic with only a short stopover at confusion to refuel. "Agh," he quipped, having failed to remember his next cutting insult.

Ron wavered a bit closer to Draco's broom. "Hand it over, Malfoy," he rasped.

Draco swallowed, giving his mind just enough time to regroup with a desperate plan. "Catch it if you can!" he shouted, hurling the Remembrall skyward with terror-driven strength. All eyes, save those of Draco himself, locked on the glittering sphere as it reached the apex of its flight, catching the afternoon sun in a resplendent flash of fleeting glory. Draco's eyes missed the splendor he had created, as he was racing himself to the relative safety of the ground, where his minions were waiting.

Ron's jaw clenched a bit further as the Remembrall started to fall, and Harry thought he heard the sound of a cracking tooth - a sound which he wished was not quite so familiar. Harry felt his breath caught in his throat along with the rest of the first-year class as he watched Ron turn down in a steep dive, anticipating the path of the plummeting prize and rushing towards the earth with dangerous speed as he strove to beat the Remembrall down.

There was a terrible ghastly silence.

There was a far more terrible ghastly shout from Professor Do Not Cross Minerva McGonnagal, who had just arrived on the field. "RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

Ron, who had just pulled a rather hair-raising corkscrew turn to avoid being turned to paste by the ground, held up Neville's Remembrall. "Catching this?" he squeaked, and fell off his broom.

* * *

"Absolute _idiot_, probably going to be _expelled _for this, could have broken his _neck_ with that stunt!"

Harry nodded, more out of desperation than agreement. "Right, Hermione, very dangerous," he agreed. "Really cool, though."

Ron was nowhere in sight. This was rather odd, since they had gathered in the Great Hall for dinner, and Ron had never been known to miss a dinner.

Percy Weasley noticed this. "Where's Ron?"

"Right, where's our little Ronniekins-"

"Apple of his mother's eye-"

"Eater of his mother's apple pie?" asked FredandGeorge.

"We don't know," admitted Harry. Hermione was still fuming about 'insensitive prat' and 'get himself killed'.

Percy, in what Harry had come to expect as his usual reaction, paled. "What?"

Hermione stopped muttering. "He got in a broomfight with Malfoy, and got carted off by McGonagall."

"Tried a Gledon Twist while he was at it, too," added Seamus.

At this, half the table turned their heads towards Seamus.

FredandGeorge broke the silence. "Did he pull it off?"

"Why was he doing a Gledon twist?"

"How many arms did he lose?"

"How big's the crater"

"What's a Gledon Twist?" asked Harry. This prompted a deluge of incredulous stares. Hermione promptly buried her nose in a book, having deduced the inevitability of what followed.

"Only the stupidest awesome move in the history of Quidditch!"

"They dive at top speed, see-"

"-kills you if you land-"

"And at the last second, they _twist_-"

"More of a spin-"

"-Amazing-"

"-crater the size of a house-"

"-have to be _crazy_-"

"-never even seen it _tried_-"

"Alright, alright," shouted Percy, raising his hands to make people notice him. "So Harry's not a Quidditch expert, calm -" FredandGeorge, having noticed an opportunity for mischief, had put a matched set of Thunder Scones in percy's upraised hands, and Percy had reflexively grasped them. The resulting stereophonic _BANG_ could only be described as 'Prefracturing', as it has fractured Percy the Prefect's train of thought with absolute efficiency. Harry, meanwhile, put his head on the table and tried to ignore the flood of Quidditch talk around him.


	11. Chapter 11: Confusion

Harry Potter and the Garden of Intrigue

Being an exploration of the differences in Mr. Potter's life pursuant to his understanding Victorian flower language at age 11. Single Point-of-Departure: Harry has a working lightbulb in his cupboard.

Harry Potter, all related characters, and the original Harry Potter narrative are properties of J. K. Rowling.

Chapter 11

Confusion

Ron had returned from McGonnagall's Walk of Doom with downcast eyes, in a futile attempt to hide the bubbling grin that was still spreading across his face.

"Well, what happened?" demanded Hermione, suddenly disinterested in the book that had claimed her attentions since dinner began.

Ron sparkled at her. "I dislocated my shoulder, sprained my wrist, and got a full set of matching bruises."

"Ooo-er," cried FredandGeorge. "Full set, eh? Well, color us impressed."

"Did you really do a Gledon twist?"

"He can't have, he's still got both arms-"

"Shut up and let Crimson tell it, will you?"

Ron waited for the hubbub to recede. "_And_," he continued, wallowing in the attention he'd earned, "a fractured molar."

Harry noticed a mild tone of impatience in the muttered speculation that swept through Gryffindor table. "What about McGonnagall?"

Ron beamed, his face actually glowing with inner light.

"Don't encourage him," whispered Hermione. "He'll be insufferable as it is."

Ron, ignoring Hermione as easily as if he hadn't heard her - which he may well not have - finally deigned to divulge his adventures in the clutches of Professor Do Not Cross McGonnagall. "Well," he began, producing Neville's Remembrall, "After I caught this - which, Neville, here - " Ron tossed the offending article to Neville, who, fully recovered from his fall, had returned only three minutes prior and been fully briefed on Ron's derring-do. "Right. After that, McGonnagall carted me off to a side hallway. I thought she was going to set me on fire and hide the ashes or something."

"-thought you'd been _expelled_," muttered Hermione, under her breath.

"But instead, she went in, talked to Professor Snape. Said she needed to borrow Wood."

Half the Gryffindors, as well as a few Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws who had wandered over, showed a sudden comprehension.

"Of course I was panicked, thought she meant a special club to pound me down with," continued Ron. Harry was honestly thinking the same thing. "And come on, it was Snape, she might've been." This elicited several nods of agreement, mostly from the older Gryffindors. Harry noticed one stocky upperclassman, probably in his fourth or fifth year, starting to stand up. "But then out comes Oliver, and suddenly the world's all sunshine and roses."

"Too right!" called the stocky boy, who Harry assumed must be Oliver. He'd come in just ahead of Ron, as Harry recalled.

"But what about the Gledon Twist?"

"Yeah, was that for real?"

Ron flushed a bit, either from embarrasment or the heady intoxication of popularity. "I'll get to that part."

The table erupted - they didn't care what Ron's story was anymore, they just wanted to know how he'd kept his arms on.

"I said I'll get to that!"

Harry was a bit confused. "Hermione, why does Oliver make the world sunshine and roses?"

"Harry if this is a joke, I swear on the squid I'll hex you."

"No, no," Harry affirmed. "I'm just confused."

Hermione sighed. "Once again, I must admit I don't know. He's not in the study groups I joined last week, but I've heard people mention him in terms of hopeful admiration."

Harry turned to Neville. "Neville?"

"Quidditch captain."

"Ah."

Hermione shook her head apathetically.

Ron, meanwhile, had finally quieted the dissenters - simultaneously backed and opposed by FredandGeorge - and was prepared to finish his story. "Alright, so Oliver asks what's going on-"

"-and McGonnagall tells me she's found a candidate for Seeker," Oliver concluded. While Ron started fuming at his stolen thunder, Oliver elaborated. "He's got a long ways to go before he's really up to our standards, but Mr. Crimson has a way with a broom that I haven't seen since... well, since his brother Charlie got out."

"Charlie's sending me his old broom so I've got something to work with," added Ron, while the Gryffindors roared their approval.

Seamus grinned. "In keeping with long tradition, of course."

"And when _you _get out, it goes right in with the rest of the splintery sticks in storage," confirmed Dean with a wink.

Ron flushed, this time in familial rage. He tried to snap back at his friends, but unfortunately all he managed was a rabid splutter.

"But what about the Gledon Twist?" cried a third-year Hufflepuff.

"Oh, yeah, that was more of a double Scrimshaw turn," admitted Ron.

* * *

"These practices are bloody _murder_," whined Ron, collapsing into a comfortable chair in the Gryffindor common room. Wednesday had come and gone, and Ron had spent his evening with the Gryffindor Quidditch team instead of studying.

"Having second thoughts?" inquired Hermione. She had drilled Harry, Neville, Seamus and Dean on their Potions homework for Thursday, and they were feeling almost as drained as Ron looked.

Ron goggled at her. "Nah, are you daft? This is the best thing to happen to me since I got old enough to fly!" He eased further into his chair. "It's just exhausting, though. I have to do all the drills for mobility, learn all the plays the Chasers use... Fred and George keep beating Bludgers at me, I think I've got bruises on my bruises now... And Wood's got me on a special regimen of practices for extra speed and maneuverability, he wants me to be good enough for a real Gledon by the first match."

Hermione smiled. "Maybe a bit of Potions homework will take your mind off the pain," she suggested. "I'll give you five minutes to rest, though, you look _terrible_."

Dean pulled Neville and Seamus aside to play a bit of Exploding Snap - once Neville had gotten over his nerves, he'd become a regular shark at the game, and Dean was determined to beat him somehow. Harry, meanwhile, eased into his own chair, planning to listen in on Ron's Potions torment. He'd been uncertain about the applications of lavender petals in emotion-modifying draughts, and hoped that he'd pick up on the nuances this time around.

Ron, meanwhile, had already fallen asleep.

* * *

Thursday. Harry and Neville were darting glances at every shadow, every sudden movement, their shared terror a strange display of synchronicity.

"What are you two on about, eh?" asked Seamus, grabbing them both by a shoulder.

Harry and Neville let out simultaneous _yipe_s, whirling to face the danger of their friend and roommate.

"It's Thursday, we're trying to avoid the Doom that Thursday Brings," explained Harry. Neville nodded in agreement.

Seamus just looked at them, his gaze sweeping slowly from Harry to Neville and back again. "Huh."

"We can't stop it, we know we can't, but we have to try." Neville slumped forlornly. "If we don't at least try to avoid the Doom, it just comes in worse."

"Wait, I thought it got worse the longer we held it off," objected Harry. "Yours bites you if you don't fight it?"

Neville raised his left eyebrow in mild confusion. "Your Thursdays get worse when you _do_?"

Harry nodded. "Maybe it's trying to teach us something."

Seamus grinned, still not believing the power of Thursday. "Something besides 'run from Thursday'?"

"Yeah," Harry agreed, "Something like 'accept fate' or 'stand up for yourself.'"

"Or maybe it was just preparing us for Hogwarts," suggested Neville. "We're here."

They had arrived at Snape's dungeon.

* * *

Harry winced, his forehead flaring with pain as Professor Snape inspected his cauldron for the fifteenth time. The note had been confiscated and incinerated before Harry had even tried to pass it, and his Snape-induced headache was making it very difficult to focus on proper brewing procedure. Ron was being no help, either - he was far too elated from his recent induction into the excessively complex and unbalanced wizarding sport of choice to give attention to potions. Still, Ron's concoction was rather more appealing than Harry's own turgid mess. Beyond Ron, Neville and Hermione were toiling away at a sweet-smelling fluid; Neville had accidentally added wooly thyme instead of woody thyme, earning him a lecture from Snape - and losing a few points from Gryffindor, as well - but Hermione's levelheadedness had steered them back into passing territory.

"Two points from Gryffindor for your obvious incompetence, Potter," began Snape, winding up for another conflated confrontation. His deleterious declamation was interrupted, however, as Ron chose that very moment to slip a few eglantine petals into his cauldron. Snape instantly cut off his tirade, leaping for cover half a second before Ron's cauldron exploded.

The viscous goo that erupted from Ron's ill-fated (school issue) cauldron burned its way into Harry's skin, and he felt a moment of pity for Ron and Neville, who had also been caught in the blast. Cool vapour seared its way through his veins, leaving a wash of comfort and cleanliness in its wake, and Harry was pretty sure he screamed as the infernal sensation overtook his brain.

When he regained his senses, perhaps twelve seconds later, Harry noticed that the globs from Ron's cauldron had already vanished. _Well, they've vanished from Ron and Neville, at least_. There were a few gobbets still clinging to the floor, the remains of Ron's table, and the dungeon ceiling. Snape was already back on the scene, expertly investigating the potion's remains.

"Incredible..." he murmured, carefully smelling the remnants of Ron's cauldron. "Ten points from Gryffindor for your reckless endangerment of your fellow students, Weasley. The compound you added to precipitate this ... premeditated disaster ..." Snape paused for a moment, studying the remains of Ron's creation. "You should count yourself lucky. Any other substance, and I have no doubt you and your friends would be on your way to St. Mungo's for permanent interment in the insanity ward." Ron blanched, doing a fair impersonation of his elder brother. "I'll decide on an appropriate punishment for you three. Stand as you are, I'll address you at the end of the period."

Ron hung his head, a triumphant grin barely visible behind his hair. Neville collapsed, too shaken to do anything more, while Harry checked his cauldron to see if there was anything he could do to save his grades. Finding it empty - _Snape must have gotten rid of that gook while I was screaming - _Harry imitated Ron's contrite posture, waiting for Snape to finish grading the Slytherins and abusing the Gryffindors so he could find out what manner of terrible fate awaited them.

* * *

Thursday had reached fruition, Harry was sure of it. The three of them against Professor Snape, in the seat of his power? Harry's head was pounding with a severe _Snape-Hates-Me_ headache. There was no question that this was the work of Double Thursdays. Harry risked a glance at Neville, but couldn't catch his eye - Neville was shaking, though, and Harry was pretty sure it wasn't from a private joke.

Ron was still hanging his head to hide that annoying grin. _What's he done?_ thought Harry, hopelessly. _Why is he smiling?_ Try as he might, though, Harry couldn't think of any reason for Ron to be smiling about detention with Snape.

Snape, for his part, had bottled up the remains of Ron's concoction in several quietly humming jars, which he had then locked into the heavy iron cabinet behind his desk. Harry expected that FredandGeorge had spent many an hour trying to break into that repository of dangerous things, but couldn't imagine even their mad skill breaching Snape's defenses.

Snape turned back to the trio of Gryffindors, his expression grim. One eyebrow rose half an inch. "Each of you was involved in the incident."

"Yes," confirmed Ron, a hint of smugness in his tone.

The oily professor leveled a steady stare at Ron's eyes for three full seconds before Ron hung his head again to escape. "I see," he whispered, still not revealing what he meant. "Your reason for endangering the lives of your fellow students with such and ill-conceived potion?"

Ron didn't even hesitate. "We wanted to know what you were on about, with those secret-message questions of yours, and you didn't read the note Harry'd made for you. This was my backup plan to get your attention."

Snape stared at Ron in amazement, and Harry's headache shifted from _Snape-Hates-Me_ to _WhatisRondoing_. "For this you concocted an exploding potion of pain?"

Ron stumbled back a step in fear, and Harry couldn't blame him. Snape was terrifying even without the black fire in his eyes or the cloak billowing dramatically in the absence of wind, and he'd just manifested both of those qualities spontaneously.

"Ah," explained Ron, "Well, it wasn't _supposed_ to be a Potion of Pain, it was supposed to be an exploding potion of _healing_."

Snape glared at him.

"But- the reason we wanted to ask, well, Harry translated your secret messages-"

"Unless there was one in the Bezoar question," interjected Harry. "We couldn't figure that one out."

"Right, except for that one. And I was thinking, 'why would Professor Snape, who hates Harry, tell Harry that Snape regrets Harry's mum dying?'" Ron thrust his forefinger into the air. "Then it hit me. You're a double-triple agent working for You-Know-Who, and you do something that you think causes the death of Harry's mum, who you love."

"Get on with it," hissed Snape.

"Right, er, so you feel responsible for that and decide to honor her memory by taking responsibility for her child. Dunno why you hate him, but you've pretty much sworn your life as his protector, right?"

Snape collapsed into his chair. "Your assumptions are correct. The messages were intended only for the young Potter, but it seems he lacks... discretion."

Harry boggled. Ron, on the other hand, was wearing a big goofy grin of the sort usually reserved for children who find themselves in confectioners' establishments after business hours. Harry glanced at Neville, hoping for a bit of sanity, and found a degree of shock which rivaled his own. He turned back to Professor Snape. "Wha?"

"Not really," objected Ron. "He just has smart friends. Neville figured it out in less than a week." Harry wasn't really following the conversation between his most-feared teacher and his red-headed friend, but something was nagging at his mind.

_How'd he manage to mix Hermione's explosive? He was asleep while she lectured him!_

"You have another accomplice?" Professor Snape was glaring at Harry again, despite Ron's current status as Speaker for the Doomed. "How many are involved?"

Harry swallowed, trying to get his larynx working again. Remembering his conversation with Neville, he decided to give in to the power of Thursday. "Er, I asked my friends to help me figure out what the flowers meant," he admitted.

Ron groaned.

"Hermione and Ron, that is. And Hagrid, I suppose. Neville came up with a plan to let you know we knew. Er, with the note you burned. But I don't understand, Professor, why would you try to send me secret messages by making me look stupid?"

Snape smiled, cruelly, and Harry's headache got worse. "Because, Mr. Potter, the world does not run on sense." Snape turned to Neville. "Mr. Longbottom, do not speak of what has transpired here unless you wish to face consequences most dire. Return to my office tomorrow at three o'clock. You are dismissed." Neville fled the room, and Harry heard him trip on his own feet in the corridor before the door swung shut again.

Snape continued. "Mr. Weasley, relate the events that led you to understand the situation, in detail."

* * *

Ron's explanation was complicated enough that Harry found himself missing the ill-fated conspiracy board. He remembered the bit in Hagrid's cottage, but from there Ron's tale soared through wild and improbable hypotheses, from Harry's possible secret bloodlines to suspicions about Snape's involuted personal life. Snape, for his part, had simply sat and listened to Ron's theories as they grew ever more incredible, but had stopped him - mercifully - when he'd started pulling the Quidditch League into it.

"Enough, Mr. Weasley. Your grasp of the facts you were offered is sufficient, but your prattling reveals a dearth of comprehension where the world is concerned." Snape walked around his desk, standing in front of Ron so the boy had to crane his neck to keep Snape's face in view. "You will not speak of these things to any soul that does not already know. The idiocy you have been spouting for the past ten minutes will be forgotten, and you will not attempt to divulge my personal history."

Ron's expression had been growing less exultant by the minute, but at this, his face fell. "Aw, but-"

"No one, Mr. Weasley," ordered Snape. "The consequences for breaching my trust are not to be taken lightly. You will return to my office at three o'clock tomorrow. You are dismissed." Snape turned to Harry, whose mind had become incapable of coherent thought. As Ron trudged out, the Potions Master ordered Harry to sit. Harry complied.

"Er, Professor?"

"You will explain why you thought it best to divulge a secret communication to others. You will also explain how you were able to decipher the message to begin with. You are not particularly intelligent, and I find it suspicious that you would be so familiar with the esoterica of floral communication." Snape's eyes seemed to be boring right into Harry's, as though the professor were wielding an augur with his gaze.

"I didn't, I," Harry gabbled, trying to get his thoughts to line up around the pain in his forehead. "My aunt Petunia had a book about Victorian flower language, I used to read it in my cupboard-"

"You expect me to believe you memorized the contents of that book, and no others?"

"No, I, I brought it with me," Harry sputtered. His headache was growing steadily worse. "After I got my books for Hogwarts, I thought, maybe it would be interesting if they agreed on something."

Snape did not look impressed.

"And I remembered Aconite because it kept telling me to look under other names, and I thought that was fun." Harry was sweating.

"I am not amused, Mr. Potter." Snape hadn't taken his eyes off of Harry the entire time, and his undivided attention was quite disconcerting. "How were you able to divine the intent of my first message?"

_The first message- Wormwood and Asphodel_. "Lilies." Harry was back on familiar ground at last, and heaven help him if he just let Thursday keep him from doing what Thursday demanded. Blasted Double Thursdays. "Asphodel is a kind of lily, I remember them because my mum..." Harry swallowed again, still shaken by Snape's unblinking stare.

"Continue."

"Wormwood I remember because it had a strange name, and the school chapel mentioned it once. I found it in the book, and I remembered it, because I'd always wondered what Wormwood really was."

Snape's expression still hadn't changed. "And you knew from half-remembered myths and an old Muggle book?"

"No, um, I didn't really understand at first," Harry confessed. "I thought for a moment you'd meant you regretted my mom's death, but, um, you were asking a question," Harry hesitated for a moment, "and you hate me."

At this, Snape nodded agreement, his mouth twisting into a bitter smile. "From there you followed your suspicions, and discovered the truth."

Harry nodded.

"You have interpreted my messages correctly," Snape said, sending Harry's throbbing brain reeling. "You will not speak of these events. You will not tell anyone who does not already know of these events. You will not inquire further about my history with your mother. You will not discuss what you have learned with any person save myself or the Headmaster. Do you understand?"

Harry nodded, a bit less confidently.

Snape frowned. "You will return to my office at three o'clock tomorrow. At that time, the appropriate actions will be taken. You are dismissed." Harry stood, wobbling for a moment. His headache was still just as intense, but he couldn't believe that Thursday was finished with him so quickly. It was Double Thursdays, how could this possibly be the end?

Snape had opened the door. "_Move_, Potter!" he hissed, to another flash of pain from Harry's skull. Harry complied, half falling through the dungeon door in his haste to escape Snape's confusing commands.


	12. Chapter 12: Loss

Harry Potter and the Garden of Intrigue

Being an exploration of the differences in Mr. Potter's life pursuant to his understanding Victorian flower language at age 11. Single Point-of-Departure: Harry has a working lightbulb in his cupboard.

Harry Potter, all related characters, and the original Harry Potter narrative are properties of J. K. Rowling.

**Chapter 12**

**Loss**

Friday's classes were a blur to Harry, and he couldn't imagine that Ron was faring any better. Hermione had grilled them both - and Neville, though he'd only been there for the first minute - but the fear of Snape was upon them, and they did not betray his trust.

Trust wasn't really the right word for it, but Harry was too busy trying to turn matches into needles to find a better one.

Hagrid had invited Harry down to tea again, and he'd convinced Neville and Hermione to come along - the date was set for half past four, but it was a good twenty-minute walk from the castle to Hagrid's cottage, and Harry had sent a note with Iris telling him they might be a bit late due to detention. Hermione, surprisingly, had received a note from the Headmaster telling her to join the Three Doomed Lads in their follow-up appointment with Snape. Harry would've given him a nickname, something with snakes and oil in it, but the man was just too terrifying.

At least Ron's exploding Potion of Painful Scouring had been the worst thing to happen that day.

* * *

Harry had met with Neville, Ron and Hermione in the hall outside Snape's office - Hermione had been the first to arrive, and was reading another book while she waited, while Ron had shown up at the last possible second.

"Any idea what they want from us?"

Ron shook his head. "All I can think is that Snape's going to brainwash us, but Dumbledore'd never allow it."

Hermione sighed again. Harry noticed she'd been doing that pretty frequently, especially when Ron was talking. "Hermione?"

"Nope."

Harry grinned weakly. "Wait, you're not Hermione?"

Hermione glared at him. "Stop joking, Harry." She turned back to her book.

Neville nudged Harry in the elbow. "Best just listen to her, eh Harry?"

Harry nodded. "Er, do you think we should just go in, or will he come get us?"

Neville gave Harry a hunted look. "Which is worse?" he asked, "Interrupting Professor Snape, or making him wait?"

Harry knocked.

* * *

Snape's office was, if anything, more foreboding than his classroom. There were no cauldrons, no cupboards, and no shelves; the small stone cell held only Snape's desk, two small wrought-iron cubes, and an hourglass. It also contained Professor Snape and, for some reason, Headmaster Dumbledore.

Ron blinked twice and started mumbling something.

"Ronald Weasley, Neville Longbottom, Hermione Granger, and my dear Harry Potter, so good of you all to join us." Dumbledore's eyes were twinkling, but his voice and expression were quite grave. "Severus has been telling me of your wild theories, and I must say, I've never before been so delighted by students' intelligence."

Neville stopped shivering, and Hermione straightened with pride. Harry noticed Ron was still muttering.

"However, I must admit I never expected Severus to divulge such a personal truth in front of half the first-year class," continued Dumbledore, eyes still twinkling. "And I'm afraid letting his secret out is a bit too dangerous at the moment."

"_Knew it_," whispered Ron, one eye starting to twitch.

Dumbledore smiled. "Ah, young master Weasley, it seems your mind is geared towards brilliance." A bit of warmth had begun creeping into Dumbledore's voice as he spoke. Snape, of course, was lurking in the corner of his office like some kind of dark unnoticeable slippy thing. "And apparently you're rooting out what I'm planning before I'm sure of it myself ... I don't suppose your family has a secret history of Leglimency that Arthur keeps forgetting to mention?"

"Legli-what?" asked Ron, confused, as Hermione let out a little gasp.

Dumbledore turned to Hermione, still smiling. "And here we have Hermione Granger, who may well turn out to be one of our brightest minds..." Dumbledore paused, waiting for Hermione to speak.

"Y... y-you're a Leglimens?" squeaked Hermione, after a few moments' silence. Dumbledore nodded.

"Er, Hermione, what's a Leggamense?" inquired Harry, who was still a bit unsure of the flow of recent events.

Presented with an opportunity to impart knowledge, Hermione stopped stammering and turned to Harry. "Leglimency, the art of reading minds. A Leglimens is a witch or a wizard that can 'hear' the thoughts of those around him, though most must maintain eye contact..." Hermione trailed off, her gaze drawn back to the Headmaster. Her face bore a mask of fear.

Dumbledore's smile drooped, and he gave a little sigh. "No, Miss Granger, I'm not in the habit of reading my students' minds. I dare say I pick up a few things here and there, but I suspect the finest Leglimens in this room is not myself, but rather -"

"SNAPE!" shouted Ron, once again wrapped in blazing red-faced fury. Neville fainted.

"Yes, quite," agreed Dumbledore. "Came in rather handy during the war, too, although that was only possible because of his perfect Occlumency." He was smiling again, and his eyes twinkled more than the sky above the Forbidden Forest. "Of course, the war isn't _quite_ over yet."

For the record, the sky above the Forbidden Forest has the most twinkly stars of any patch of sky on the planet.

Ron attempted to face Dumbledore head-on, and surprisingly only had to look up a little to meet the old wizard's eyes. "You're going to erase our minds, aren't you?"

Dumbledore smiled a little more. "Oh, just a wee bit," he admitted. "But don't worry, you'll remember everything when the time is right. Although," he stopped for a moment, not even breathing, "I admit, we'll need your permission first."

Ron glared at him, eye still twitching with justified rage. Hermione was gasping for breath after the shock of her young life, and Harry just stood there, staring dumbfoundedly at the insane old wizard.

"Severus, would you explain it to them?"

Snape detached himself from the shadows, sweeping forward until he dominated their vision. "The secret you have learned, if it falls into the Enemy's knowledge, will render me obsolete as an instrument of deception. The Enemy lives on through his followers, the Death Eaters - if they realize my role in their master's downfall my death will be swift. Yours will follow soon after."

Neville, who had just been revived by Hermione, fainted again.

"For this reason, your memories will be locked, and new ones provided. The false memories we give you will be complete. This will not interfere with your private lives or your studies. Your true memories will resurface when either the Enemy or myself has died."

Snape turned to the first cube. "In this is located a Pensieve, into which you will deposit your memories of the secret. I will modify these memories and return them to you. You will believe that Potter devised a method of vengeance against me for my perceived cruelty, in the hopes of discovering my reasons." Snape sneered at Harry. "Which you have done."

Composing his features once more, Snape continued. "You will believe that you executed this vengeance-intelligence operation as planned, in the form of the exploding potion observed yesterday. You will remember researching the proper process for this potion-"

Hermione raised her hand.

"_What_, Miss Granger," snapped Snape.

"I, I invented that potion," mumbled Hermione. Snape blinked at her, forgetting his customary glower for a moment. Dumbledore kept smiling.

"You..." Harry thought he could see the man beneath the bitterness for an instant, there. In the space of an eyeblink, however, the misanthropic Snape returned. "No matter. You will remember _inventing_ a potion that explodes, inflicts tremendous pain, and then vanishes without a trace."

Hermione raised her hand again. "It wasn't supposed to be painful, it, it was supposed to be a healing potion, to clean out bad things..."

This time it took Snape almost two seconds to remember himself. "Indeed... I suppose you were unfamiliar with the particular properties of Eglantine, then."

_I wound to heal_, thought Harry, realizing how very strange potions were.

Snape turned to the second cube, continuing his explanation. "In this are seventy-five copies of a basic treatise on potionmaking safety, each of which I have prepared with several unique errors. While I adjust your memories, you will correct these errors. This will be your official detention for conspiring to explode a cauldron." Snape turned back to the four of them. "Are there any further interruptions?"

There were not.

"Then grant your permission and we will begin."

Ron objected. "No! I don't want you messing with my memories, I worked hard for those!"

Neville, who had revived himself this time, agreed. "M-me neither, sir."

Hermione nodded. "Is there an alternative?"

Dumbledore smiled at them, each in turn, his eyes twinkling up a storm. "There is. Severus, would you be so kind?"

Snape glowered at the Headmaster for a moment before beginning the new explanation through gritted teeth.

"I have already produced falsified memories from my own observations. You will experience these memories through the Pensieve. This will allow you to keep your stories straight, and provide a layer of protection from casual Leglimency. You will still complete your official detention."

Dumbledore stood from Snape's chair, where he had been watching the proceedings, and made for the door. "Good luck," he wished them as he whisked himself out of Snape's office.

Ron looked over at Neville, who had come back around halfway through Snape's explanation. "We're doomed."

* * *

Harry was having trouble remembering the correct process for cleaning a cauldron. He knew it wasn't 'scrub it with your bare hands and a bucket of lutefisk,' as the treatise he was correcting seemed to think, but he wasn't sure if the accepted method was 'use your wand to remove the contents' or 'pour the remnants into the incinerator and swab the interior.'

Hermione had already finished seven of them, and Ron was on his second sheet - Neville and Harry were stuck, though. Harry's mind kept floating back to the new memories Professor Snape had made for them.

Harry shivered, trying to focus on his paperwork. _Was it three feet of clearance for quick retreats from exploding cauldrons, or five?_

The treatise's mention of exploding cauldrons, or rather escape therefrom, reminded Harry of Professor Snape's incredible reflexes from the previous afternoon. _Right,_ Harry thought, _he's got mind-reading powers. He probably read Ron's mind about the exploding potion._ Satisfied with this answer, Harry immediately realized something else. "Hagrid!"

"Hagrid what?" asked Ron, looking up from his third treatise.

_Hagrid knows part of Snape's secret, it he safe? _"Er, it's getting pretty late, do you think that Snape will let us out in time to visit Hagrid?"

Ron rolled his eyes. "It's Snape, of course he won't."

Harry frowned, turning back to the indecipherable errors of Snape's cruel genius.

_Wait, did that just say the correct material for safe handling of volatile potions is gloves made of kerosene?_

* * *

_Knock Knock_

Harry was feeling very nervous, wondering what had happened to Hagrid.

_KnockKnockKnockKnockKnockKno ckKnock_

"A'right, a'right, I'm comin'. Hold yer hippogriffs."

Harry grinned, relaxing. Behind him, Ron, Hermione and Neville - with shiny new memories - were giving him odd looks.

Hagrid opened the door. "Ah, looks like a reg'lar troop today. Come on, come on in!"

Inside, they were treated to rock cakes - aptly named, and completely inedible - and steaming tea.

"Glad ter meet yeh," said Hagrid, after Neville and Hermione had been introduced. "Can't say as I've heard o' Grangers before, but I don't doubt you've a good head on yer shoulders. I've heard great things about yeh already. An' as fer you," here Hagrid chuffed Neville's shoulder, "I kin tell yeh're yer parents' son, right enough." They smiled at the praise, although Neville's smile was rather more timid.

* * *

The evening passed quickly, as Hagrid let them tell their tales of wonder and mystery, of their slightly edited second week (and Neville's first week) at Hogwarts.

When Hagrid asked if they'd found out the reasons for Snape's curious questions, Harry replied, "Er, he told us it was none of our business and made us fix safety notices for an hour."

After hearing the tale of Hermione's Explosive Potion recipe, and how Ron had earned them all detention by brewing it 'perfectly, alright?' Hagrid laughed loud enough to shake his plates from their shelves. "Ahh, yeh got ol' Snape somethin' good there, you did!" He wiped tears from his eyes with the end of his massive beard. "But inventin' a potion, well, that reminds me of Lily - yer mum, Harry. She'd always be mixin' somethin' odd into her potions, to hear James an' 'is friends tell it."

Hermione perked up a bit at that. "You knew Harry's parents?"

Hagrid nodded. "I suppose it's my turn ter tell a tale," he suggested. Harry, who had just managed to get a nibble off his rock cake by soaking it in his tea for ten minutes, nodded vigorously. "A'right then. Well, James an' Sirius an' Peter an' Remus were a bit like Fred and George, back then, 'cept it was four of 'em at once."

Ron fell out of his chair. "Four of them? How's Hogwarts still standing?" he gabbled, clambering back into his chair and pouring a new cup of tea.

Harry realized that Code Apocalypse was a bit of a silly idea if there'd been the equivalent of a double FredandGeorge back then.

"Well," Hagrid said, crunching a rock cake in half with one bite, "they spent most of their time - scuse me -" he washed down the pulverized remains of his rock cake with a swig of tea - "most of their time pestering Snape."

Understanding dawned across four eleven-year-old faces. "So they really _were_ just like FredandGeorge," offered Harry.

"Nah, not really," said Hagrid. "Snape was a student then, too. Had a bit of a crush on yer mum, if'n I remember right." Hagrid blinked a moment, and Harry was sure he'd say 'shouldn't have told ye that', but no such pronouncement was forthcoming. "Wound up with James, o'course, an' I suppose it might've been why ol' Snape turned to..." Hagrid blinked again. "But anyways, James'd always be after 'im about one thing or another, an' 'is posse went righ' along with 'im, every time."

Harry was stunned. Harry continued to be stunned as Ron said "Right on! Wish they were still around, I'd love to see what they'd do with him now!"

Hagrid sighed, staring into his teacup. "Nah, best ye don' see. Sirius Black's not something for young eyes, an' James an' Peter gone beyond... Might track down Lupin, though, he was usually a decent sort."

Neville was staring at Hagrid in horror, and Ron had stopped grinning. Since Harry was still in shock, it fell to Hermione to ask the next question.

"Hagrid, who are Black and Lupin?"

Hagrid looked up from his half-empty teacup, discovering the shock and dismay on the faces of his audience. "Ah, sorry, didn't mean ter put yeh off like tha'. Just got lost in my memories, is all." Sparing a quick glance at the window, Hagrid stood from his great stool. "Gettin' dark, now, ye'd best get back ter the castle 'fore nightfall. Wouldn't want Dumbledore mad at me, nor Filch after you." He started hustling them towards the door, expertly nudging a sleepy Fang out of the way with his foot. Harry hung back, hoping for a word with Hagrid out of the others' hearing.

"Goodnight, Hagrid."

"Thanks for the tea."

"Same time next week?"

"Aye, right," agreed Hagrid, smiling down at them all. Harry nudged him in the knee. "Eh? Oh, Harry, did ye want another rock cake?"

Harry shook his head. "Er, Hagrid, about my father," he began, motioning Hagrid closer. "Was he... was he a bully?"

Hagrid frowned. "Ah, well, if yeh put it like that... ah, come now, he grew out of it. Jest a bit of harmless pranking, innit?"

Harry shook his head again. "I'm not sure. I'm starting to think I have more in common with Snape than I do with my own father..."

Hagrid was silent at that, but he put his enormous hand on Harry's shoulders. "Now Harry, yer the son of James Potter, but yer yerself, too," he said. "An' yer father was more than a schoolyard bully, or even a prankster. Yer father, well," Hagrid paused for a moment thinking. "He was a good man, when he got mature. Would'a made a great father for yeh. An if yer thinkin' you've got summat in common with ol' Snape, well, tha' probbly means there's summat good in him, too."

Harry looked Hagrid right in his great, honest eyes. "Thanks, Hagrid," he sniffed. "Er, about what happened last week-"

At this, Hagrid put a finger to his lips. "Shhh, I heard abou' it from Dumbledore. Nothin's gettin through this great noggin, don't you worry, but best keep a tight ship on it." With that, Hagrid slipped back into his cottage, leaving Harry to wonder what exactly Hagrid had been talking about.

* * *

Saturday morning at breakfast, Neville, Ron and Harry received matching letters from the Headmaster's office. Harry's read:

_Harry Potter;_

_As your detention with Professor Snape Friday afternoon revealed a distressing lack of comprehension regarding potionmaking safety, and Professor Snape informs me your skills in potionmaking are regrettably lacking, you have been assigned a special course of Remedial Potionmaking, to take place Thursday evenings from the hours of eight PM until ten PM, unless otherwise instructed by Professor Snape. _

_Sincerely, _

_A.P.W.B.D. _

_P.S. Do try the green eggs, they're delicious. _

Harry looked to the table in front of him, finding a small bowl of green eggs the size of marbles just to his left. He took three.

Ron looked over at him, a sour expression staining his otherwise lighthearted expression. "Yours say you flunked Snape's detention too?"

Neville nodded, his expression consigned to regret.

"Er, yeah," agreed Harry. "Eight at night on Thursdays?"

"Five," offered Neville.

"Nah," said Ron, shaking his head. "I'm supposed to go in on Tuesdays after Quidditch practice. It's going to be _awful_." This earned sympathetic nods from everyone around him.

Seamus piped up from his seat down the table. "Well, sounds like Tuesday is the new Thursday!"

"No, Ron's never had Thursday Doom," corrected Neville, seated just beyond him. "That's just me and Harry."

Harry nodded. "Did Dumbledore tell you anything else?"

"Nah, just some note about the purple toast."

"Hmm." Harry bit into one of his green eggs.

It _was _delicious.


	13. Chapter 13: The Inevitable

Chapter 13

The Inevitable

"TROOOOLL! TROLL IN THE DUNGEON!"

Professor Quirrel stumbled through the Great Hall's massive doors, his feet malicious towards their burden as always. Quirrel was drenched in sweat, his arms trembling, his brow pallid and his eyes wide and wild with fearful portent. "Thought you ought to know," he gasped, as he collapsed.

* * *

The doors to the Great Hall had been locked, with Harry and the rest of the students inside. Filch and his cat were keeping an eye on them while Dumbledore led the teachers in a wild troll hunt.

"Ah, this's no fun!" Seamus tossed a spoon into his pudding. "Troll on Halloween's great, sure, but we don't get to see it from in here!"

Ron chuckled. "What, you want to go fight it? Seamus the Troll-Hunter, bagged his first Mountain Troll at the age of six!" Still chuckling, he tossed back half a yam with a cider chaser.

"Ah, shut it," retorted Seamus, forgoing his usual wit for the time being.

Harry poured himself another glass of pumpkin juice.

"Hey, where'd Hermione go?"

"Probably off working at that special project Dumbledore gave her," suggested Neville. "She's been at it every day since... well, that first Potions Thursday."

Harry remembered. He, and Neville and Ron, had been assigned 'remedial potions' with Snape. When they'd arrived at the dreaded hour, however, it had turned out to be training to keep their minds closed to Leglimency. After almost a month of lessons with Professor Too Terrifying for a Nickname Snape, Harry still didn't think he was making much progress.

Hermione, on the other hand, had been doing potions research in between anti-mind-reading training and regular classes; Harry wasn't sure where she found the time, but she'd nearly figured out how to fix the formula she'd prepared for Ron.

"Right, he gave her a room of her own for that," recalled Dean. "She test those potions on you fellas?"

Harry shivered. "No, she hasn't had us try them at all - I think she's afraid to, after what happened with the prototype."

Ron grimaced. "And no fear, I'm not making _that_ again!"

FredandGeorge appeared behind him, their eyes full of hilarious doom. "Ah, little Ronniekins!"

"We were going to prank you -"

"But you did such a good job on yourself-"

"We've been giving you the month off."

Ron struggled to escape their grasp. "Geroff!"

"No, no, _George_."

"Really, Ron, Mum taught you better elocution than that!"

"_Geroff!"_ Ron spat around a mouthful of knuckles.

"I think he wants you to get off of him," advised Harry.

"Well, we knew _that_," said FredandGeorge, "We just wanted him to use the magic word."

"_NOW_," cursed Ron, who was at this point struggling for air.

"Well done! That's one of the six magic words for getting things you want."

"Learn the other five and you'll never be lonely again!" The twins released him, stepping back a few paces to avoid Ron's retaliatory rage. "Now, we heard you chaps are pondering something-"

"Something about friendship," suggested the opposite twin.

"We were wondering where Hermione got off to," Harry told them. "We think maybe she was working on her Potions research again, but I think she was still here when Professor Quirrel came in shouting about trolls."

The twins shared a glance, nodded, and turned to Harry. "We've something to tell you, then."

"You snuck out and tried to find the troll?" guessed Ron, refilling his plate.

"Well, yes-"

"Brought Mr. Stalker along, too-"

"But there's a bit more to it than that."

Harry put down his glass. "Go on."

"Well," started Probably George, "it's like this."

"We snuck out of the Hall-"

"Which was easy, Filch can't catch us on his best day anymore-"

"Yeah, easy, and we were looking for the Troll down by Myrtle's haunt-"

"When who do we see sneaking out from the shadows than your dear little genius friend?"

Harry blinked as the twins paused for effect. "So Hermione was down in the dungeons?"

"Wait, her research is up in the West tower, just above Binns' room," Neville said, worry etching his face.

The twins nodded confirmation. "We know, so we knew she was after the troll."

"That's when we came back here, to tell you."

Harry shot out of his chair. "Wait, you didn't bring her with you?"

At this, Fredandgeorge looked a bit shiftier than usual. "Well, you see-"

"Her being a genius and all-"

"Well, we wouldn't want to stifle her creativity, bright little brain like that..."

Ron grinned at them. "She got away from you, didn't she?"

"Slipped right past us," confirmed Could Be Fred. "Sneaky little witch when she wants to be."

"We figure if she can get away from us, she's got no worries from a troll."

"Can't argue with that," agreed Seamus.

"We ought to go help her," Harry insisted. "It's our duty as friends."

He looked at each of his friends' faces in turn. "Neville, you can't let Hermione face that danger alone. She's helped both of us with our remedial Potions, and I for one don't think I'd ever get through those lessons without her advice."

Seamus snorted. "Wait, you take remedial Potions?"

"Shut up, Seamus," ordered Ron.

"Ron, Seamus, we can't let a girl go up against a troll alone."

Seamus eased back in his chair. "I can."

"Well, then we'll have to not let her go up against a troll alone, er, alone, then." Harry felt the moment slipping away from him. "Right?"

Ron nodded. "Fred, George, get us out the doors. We'll be back with Hermajesty before you can say Draco's a wanker."

Harry felt as though an enormous ego was glaring at them from across the Hall.

* * *

"Well, that went well." Harry slumped the floor, defeated. Filch had caught them halfway through the doors, despite FredandGeorge's help, and marched them all straight back into the Hall. Harry, Ron, and Neville were currently occupying an otherwise empty corner of the Gryffindor table.

"We tried, mate, we tried," Ron said, trying to cheer himself up as much as he gave comfort to Harry.

"We didn't even get out the doors!"

"Yeah, but we tried." Ron picked up a fresh plate and helped himself to some more of the holiday feast. "Cheer up, mate, Dumbledore's out there. That troll's as good as done."

At that, Harry and Neville stopped sulking.

"As are my brothers," Ron added.

* * *

"So Snape says we'd be too much trouble all together, and starts getting at my head again," finished Ron. The three had been sharing stories of Snape's training since their failed escape-with-rescue-mission.

"Huh," noted Neville.

"I asked him why he hates me so much," offered Harry.

"And?"

"Do Not Ask." Harry took a drink of pumpkin juice. "Really, that's all he said."

"Huh," observed Neville. "Told me the fancy papers he gave us for detention were made with a quill he got off your brothers last year," he said, facing Ron.

"Really? Cool, I wonder where _they _got it?" wondered Ron.

The doors opened, revealing Headmaster Dumbledore and Professor Flitwick. Both looked rather exhausted.

"Hey, did they get the troll?"

Harry stared at the doors as they closed again. "Where's Hermione?"

Neville swallowed. "Where are the other professors?"

Dumbledore had reached the center of the Hall, and his arms were raised for silence. "We have not found the troll, yet," he proclaimed, "But Professors Snape and McGonnagal are still hunting. Filius and I have returned to advise you, since it is getting rather late, and we're quite sure the troll has not left the dungeons, you should all go quickly to your dormitories and get some rest."

Harry turned back to Neville. "So where's Hermione?"

Neville shrugged, his expression worried. Ron, meanwhile, had stopped eating, which was a sure sign of distress.

Dumbledore strode to the High Table, preparing to oversee the proper egress of his students from the Great Hall, when the doors swung open again with a _BANG_.

"I took care of the troll in the dungeon!"

Hermione stumbled through the Great Hall's massive doors, her tired feet dragging on the wide flagstones. She was drenched in sweat, her arms trembling, her brow pallid and her eyes wide with fearful experience. "Thought you ought to know," she gasped, as she collapsed.


	14. Chapter 14: Progress

Harry Potter and the Garden of Intrigue

Being an exploration of the differences in Mr. Potter's life pursuant to his understanding victorian flower language at age 11. Single Point-of-Departure: Harry has a working lightbulb in his cupboard.

Harry Potter, all related characters, and the original Harry Potter narrative are properties of J. K. Rowling.

Chapter 14

Progress

Halloween had ended with a flurry of confusion. After Hermione's announcement and subsequent collapse, she'd been whisked away to Madam Pomfrey's medical wing for some much-needed medical attention.

Professors McGonnagal, Trelawney, Sprout, and Snape, the latter sporting a limp, had confirmed Hermione's brief claim to troll-hunting heroism, citing the large, unconscious mountain troll in the girls' loo as evidence.

Harry had walked with Professor McGonnagal to the medical wing, tailed by Neville and Ron, hoping for answers. The rest of the student body had presumably gone to their dorms.

"Er, Professor, do you think Hermione will be all right?" asked Harry, fear whirling in his mind.

Professor McGonnagal sniffed. "Mr. Potter, that young miss Granger was able to survive her encounter with a troll of that stature is nothing short of miraculous. How she was able to defeat such a creature is, I am afraid, beyond me."

Harry slouched a bit, but kept walking. "So, um, is she going to be all right?"

This earned him a frighteningly steady gaze from his Head of House. "I dare say so!"

The three boys let out a communally held breath of anxiety.

"Ah, I knew she'd be fine," quipped Ron, who hadn't.

Neville said nothing in that extremely conspicuous way of his.

"Shut up!"

"Er, Ron, we didn't say anything," Harry noted.

Ron _shrahmuphed_.

"Really, we didn't! Although you were pretty nervous until Professor McGonnagal said-"

"HA!" crowed Ron, "I knew you had something to say!"

Harry gave Ron a look of confusion. "Er, what?"

"You said something about me, so I get to say shut up," explained Ron exultingly.

Harry didn't understand a word his friend was saying, but he thought it'd be better not to say so, given Ron's recent penchant for lengthy, incomprehensible explanations.

Ron grinned at him.

"Oh, shut up, Ron," said Harry.

"Gentlemen, if you're quite finished," admonished Professor McGonnagal, who had somehow conspired to remain unnoticed during the boys' exchange.

Neville _meeped_, and the three of them walked in silence the rest of the journey.

* * *

"I'll be fine, Madam Pomfrey says I just overexerted myself. And that I'm exhibiting signs of post-traumatic stress consistent with an eleven-year-old meeting a mountain troll." Hermione was sitting up in bed, nursing a steaming cup of cocoa. "She's really quite nice, I can see why your brothers keep getting injured."

Ron flushed. "That's not why," he objected. "They're just loopy, is all."

Harry nodded. "Twisted as a dragon's horn."

"Slippery as Gillyweed," supplied Neville.

Hermione smiled. "I'm feeling better already. Now, how about our homework? Professor Snape still needs your papers for remedial Potions, and there's that test coming up in Transfiguration..."

"Aw, Hermione," groaned Ron. "We can study tomorrow, it's still Halloween!" Harry and Neville nodded to back him up.

Hermione drained her cocoa, set the cup aside, and then crossed her arms. "Absolutely out of the question. You're doing your homework, and then I'll tell you how I beat the troll, okay?"

"Ooh, that'll be good," said Harry. "Can you make it a spooky Halloween story?"

"Homework," ordered Hermione, pointing imperiously out of the room. "Hermajesty requires it."

Harry and Neville bowed, dragging Ron down with them. "Yes, Hermajesty," they intoned, laughing.

* * *

Hermione was back on her feet by morning, showing up early for class and generally knowing more than she ought to about any given subject.

"Right," said Harry, after another interminable class in History of Magic. "Can we hear how you beat the troll, now?"

"Hear, hear!" cheered the entire first-year Gryffindor class.

Hermione sighed. "All right. But don't laugh." She glanced from one grinning face to another. "_Fine,_ laugh, but get it out of your systems! It's not that funny anyways."

Ron was already chuckling. "Go on, then, tell it," he chortled, anticipation steaming from his eyes.

"Well, I decided to hunt it down when Professor Quirrel collapsed in the Great Hall. I slipped out behind the teachers, before they locked the doors - I thought, since I've read all about the layout of Hogwarts in this book," Hermione pulled out a massive tome titled _Hogwarts, a History_, dropping it into Harry's insufficient arms, "that I could find it faster."

"Ow," noted Harry from the floor. "Did that work?"

"Perfectly," replied Hermione. "The floor plans change on a set of interrelated patterns, so I knew how to get where I wanted to go. And as for finding a mountain troll in the dungeons of Hogwarts, well, I just asked the paintings." There were a few sniggers at this, but most of Hermione's peers just nodded knowingly.

Seamus wasn't satisfied, however. "Oy, how'd you get past the Weasley Twins?"

"Yeah, how'd you give 'em the slip?"

Hermione flushed. "Well, I hid in the girl's loo. I expect they wouldn't follow anybody there." She was rewarded with stunned silence.

Sadly, the silence lasted only a few heartbeats. "You hid in the _loo_?" cried Ron, indignantly. "That's- that's-"

"There are no words," agreed Seamus. "Her cleverness is beyond that of you or I."

Harry nodded, patting Ron on the back consolingly. "Then what?"

"Well, after about five minutes, the troll showed up. If it weren't for Professor Snape, I'd have been too afraid to move..."

"Wait, why?" asked Dean, confused.

Hermione panicked momentarily. "Ah, uh, because... he's so scary?" She grinned unconvincingly, hoping nobody would notice her deception.

Harry realized what she had almost said, though - Snape's anti-mind-reading training was what had shielded her from fear. He tensed, wishing he knew some way to make everyone forget Hermione's slip.

"Can't argue with that," agreed Dean, inadvertently granting Harry's wish.

"Right," gasped Hermione, deflating. "Well, it slipped on a bar of soap-"

The laughter took almost two minutes to fade.

"As I was saying ... after that it was just a quick Twisted Metal charm to cage it, and I came straight back to the great Hall."

"Er, why did that make you exhausted?" inquired Ron. "If it was just the one spell, why'd you collapse?"

Hermione grimaced. "Well," she began, "I-"

"Because that charm's meant for turning plates into bowls, and she was _really_ overdoing it," explained Percy, who had just turned the corner ahead of them. "Honestly, Hermione, wouldn't a simple Stone to Mud to Stone have been easier?"

Hermione mumbled something incomprehensible.

"What's that?"

"I couldn't transmute the floor," admitted Hermione.

Percy stood dumbfounded.

"Well," opined Seamus, "Hogwarts is a bit quirky, eh? Maybe it didn't want a troll stuck in it."

* * *

Potions that Thursday were easier than usual, for some strange reason. Harry's customary headache - he'd taken to calling them 'hateaches', since they seemed to be caused by Snape's hatred - was only a dull throbbing in the front of his skull, and his potion was actually the right color for once.

Neville and Ron were doing better than usual, as well; Hermione and Draco, as always, were competing to make the finest potion in the room.

"Hey, Draco," Harry muttered, trying not to catch Snape's attention.

Draco glanced up from his cauldron across from Harry. "What is it, Potter?" he snapped. "Need advice on how to slice your Rosemary?"

Harry was a bit put off by Draco's antagonistic tone. "Er, no, I did that already."

"What, then?"

"Er, well, I wanted to tell you that Code Apocalypse is being retired," admitted Harry.

Draco just stared at him.

"See, Hagrid tells me there were these four blokes, back in the day, and each of them was a match for Mr. Stalker and the Twins," explained Harry, "so, um, we don't have to worry about the castle being destroyed."

Draco rolled his eyes and turned back to his Memory Mixture. "I tried to tell you that our first week here," he said, adding a few pansy petals. "But no, you just _had_ to have something to panic about."

"Er," said Harry.

"Greg's been off making plans with those muggle-lovers for the past month, I can't get him to properly intimidate people at all anymore," complained Draco, ignoring Harry's lack of response. "And Vincent, well, he keeps mumbling about union dues and benefits, I don't know, it's all gone wrong somehow."

"Sorry," said Harry, hoping it wasn't his fault.

Draco glared at him. "You should be! It's your fault they unionized, now they don't do a lick of work!" He turned back to his potion again, stirring it carefully. "Father never had to deal with this, I'm sure of it," he muttered.

"Well-"

"Look to your potion, Harry," Draco ordered. "It's starting to spoil."

Harry frantically stirred his own Memory Mixture, pouring in juice from Holly berries and being rewarded with a nearly-salvageable goo.

Snape, being the spiteful professor that he was, naturally chose that moment to inspect Harry's potion.

* * *

"Go Gryffindor!"

Harry's enthusiastic cheers were echoed by other voices around the stadium. He'd never really cared about sports before, but then, he'd never had a friend that played a sport before, either. Harry still hadn't learned half the rules to Quidditch, though since he wasn't playing, that didn't seem much of a problem.

"Do you think he'll be any good?" asked Neville, squinting at the tiny figures lined up on the field. Harry could only tell which were Gryffindor and which were Slytherin by their brightly-colored robes, they were so far away.

"Er, maybe," he admitted. "He beats me at chess all the time, that's sort of the same, right?"

Neville's expression strongly disagreed.

Hermione was still reading through _Hogwarts, a History_ - in fact, she seemed to have more left than she'd had the previous week.

"Hermione," inquired Harry, "Are you still reading that same book?"

"No," Hermione replied. "I'm reading it _again._"

"Um..." retorted Harry. He turned back to the field. "I think they're about to start."

* * *

"And it's Slytherin with the Quaffle - nope, Wood's stopped them scoring _again_ - back to Gryffindor, not sure what that move's called, actually, looks like a triple-bypass around the Slytherin chasers - " Lee Jordan, as the only applicant, had earned the distinction of announcing every Hogwarts Quidditch match for the next five years or so.

"Wow," added Harry. The Gryffindors had been controlling the game since the first whistle, with complex passes and shots and such. Ron and the twins moved with a chaotic grace that no other player could match - or predict - weaving through the Slytherins, blocking their maneuvers, and keeping total custody of the Bludgers. Slytherin's Whackers _- wait, no, that's the wrong term. Smashers? Splatters? _

"Neville, what's Fred's job out there?"

"Beater," responded Neville, automatically. "He's a natural."

"Right, thanks." Slytherin's Beaters, being incapable of predicting the twins' movements, had been desperately tailing the Weasley trio for the better part of the match, in hopes that their impossible Bludger control would slip for a moment. So far, no such luck for the silver and green.

"And why's Ron shouting at everybody?" Harry asked of anybody nearby. No-one answered, as no-one knew; Ron wasn't acting like any Seeker they'd ever seen, though, that was for certain.

"Gryffindor with another score - that's a hundred and eighty to ten, for those who aren't keeping track - some amazing moves from the attractive Gryffindor chaser, as well-" there was a _thwack_ from the announcer's box. "Sorry, Professor, just telling it like it is," Lee apologized.

Harry didn't quite get it.

"Another quick goal from that gorgeous Chaser, not sure what the Gryffindor Seeker is up to - WAIT - SLYTHERIN HAS SEEN THE SNITCH!"

Sure enough, Slytherin's Seeker, who had spent the entire match floating above the action, had swerved into a curving dive towards something glittering and golden. Ron, hearing the commotion and ducking a Bludger without even looking, snapped 'round to the same destination and accelerated like some kind of high-efficiency solid-fuel rocket.

"IT'S SLYTHERIN - GRYFFINDOR - THIS COULD BE ANY MAN'S GAME, FOLKS!" screamed Lee, completely lost in the moment.

Harry blinked, and missed it.

* * *

"Cheer up, Ron, Gryffindor still won, right?"

Ron, as was his custom, _mrrphumph_ed.

Harry sighed, looking to Hermione and Neville to lend support. Neville picked up on his meaning immediately.

"Right, it's not like you missed the snitch _and_ lost the game." He pondered for a moment. "Come to think of it, how did Gryffindor win without the Snitch? That never happens."

"Sixteen times in the history of Quidditch," Ron said with a sigh. "Only the three-point rule is rarer."

Hermione, wisely, said nothing.

"Well, well, well, feeling down after a rousing defeat, eh Weasley?" Draco's smugness was palpable even from the other end of the corridor, and Harry wondered how he'd known where to find them.

"Still beat your team, Movie Villain Name," spat Ron. "Didn't need the Snitch for that."

Draco affected a pose of theatrical tragedy. "I weep for them, really I do," he intoned, the sarcastic melodrama nearly dripping from his voice. "But that's not important. What's important is that our Seeker is still better than the best Gryffindor could find."

Ron _shrumph_ed. "Where's your minions, Draco?"

Harry blinked, looking at Draco again. _What do you know, no minions. Odd._

Draco deflated. "Goyle's off setting up the party for your team, seems they're just the _best_ of friends," he admitted. "And Crabbe... well, he's behind you."

Neville and Hermione whirled in sudden terror.

"Hi," said Mr. Loom. He loomed while he said it, too, and Harry couldn't figure out how.

"Er, hi," replied Harry. Neville and Hermione were taking cover behind him, and Ron was still glaring at Draco. Harry had a sudden realization - "Is that the first time you've talked to us?"

Mr. Loom smiled, and somewhere a comet died. "Yyyyyyup."

Harry waited for more, but none was forthcoming. "Well, um, nice to meet you again, Mr. Loom. How's the union?"

Mr. Loom just grinned at him. It was frankly amazing to Harry how Vincent could make his teeth loom.

"Right, glad to hear it. I'll just, er, turn around now. Right."

Draco and Ron were in the middle of a heated argument about Quidditch, the improbability of losing with the Snitch, and whether Ron's shouting tactical decisions to the players that could actually score more than once had any bearing on his team's victory. Ron seemed rather happier than he had since he'd rammed into the wall while the other guy caught the Snitch.

"Okay, gents, break it up," said Harry, feeling far more comfortable between his most unstable friends than he did with Mr. Loom looming behind him. Loomishly. "We've got a party to get to, and I'm sure you're all welcome.

Draco snorted derisively, but didn't actually object. "Coming, Mr. Loom?" asked Harry, before Draco could order the boy otherwise.

Mr. Loom loomed in a more party-inclined manner.

Harry looked back at Draco. "How does he _do_ that?"

"Eh," explained Draco, shrugging. "You got Butterbeer at that party?"


	15. Chapter 15: The Enemy

Harry Potter and the Garden of Intrigue

Being an exploration of the differences in Mr. Potter's life pursuant to his understanding victorian flower language at age 11. Single Point-of-Departure: Harry has a working lightbulb in his cupboard.

Harry Potter, all related characters, and the original Harry Potter narrative are properties of J. K. Rowling.

Chapter 15

The Enemy

The excitement of learning how to ignore physics and rewrite the laws of reality at a whim distracted Harry from the mundane flow of time, and he was rather rushed when Christmas rolled around.

"Eeeaurgh," yawned Harry, blinking the sleep from his eyes. Despite the lack of nightmares over the past few weeks, he'd been running himself raw trying to find delicious Christmas presents for all his friends.

Harry smiled very deeply at that thought. _I've got enough friends that I have to hunt for gifts for them. _

He was mildly surprised to find a large pile of gifts at the foot of his bed - but rather less surprised to find a large pile of wrapping paper surrounding Ron. Finding a genuine Invisibility Cloak in his last gift, however, was definitely the show-stopping moment of Harry's first happy Christmas.

* * *

"Blimey," whispered Ron, watching Harry appear from the Invisibility Cloak. "What've you been doing with it, then?"

"Wandering the halls at night, trying to figure out how Filch keeps the whole magic castle clean," replied Harry, honestly.

Ron smacked himself in the forehead. "Really? That's it? You're not raiding the kitchens, getting contraband from Filch's lockup, aiding and abetting the Twins?"

"Nope."

Ron puzzled a moment. "Scaring ghosts?"

"Nope."

"Sneaking into the Restricted section of the Library!" Ron thrust his hand skyward in triumph, basking in his own certainty.

"Nope."

Ron deflated. "Well, why not?"

"Don't you listen to Hermione? Those books are restricted for very good reason, Ron." Harry folded his Cloak carefully, hiding it with his secondhand socks. "They'd probably eat my eyes out or something."

"Eehh," objected Ron. "You've _got_ to be doing something better than following Filch!"

Harry smiled. Not just any smile, though - a smug smile, like an owl that's just been asked to deliver a parcel of traps to the wizard with the largest rodent infestation in Wales, and knows she'll be allowed to visit as long as she likes. "Follow Filch? Not likely, I can't even keep up with him."

"Er," asked Ron.

"I tried following him for a few days, sure," admitted Harry, "but he kept slipping through secret passages and such." He smiled again. "So I started looking for the grimiest parts of the castle, and let me tell you, I found 'em."

"Harry," interrupted Ron with a roll of his eyes, "Filch doesn't clean the castle. The elves do."

Harry had been about to explain his momentous discovery, arms raised high, and looked rather silly when he suddenly had nothing to say.

"Er," Harry asked, echoing Ron. "Elves? Like, ancient beings of high magic and eldar grace?"

"What kind of books have you been reading? Nah," Ron dismissed Harry's lofty notions, "just House-Elves. Dunno if there are any other kinds, now that I think about it."

Silence reigned for a moment.

"Hermione?"

"Hermione."

"Tomorrow then."

* * *

Hermione glared at them.

"Look," Harry burbled, backpedaling rapidly, "we're sorry we interrupted you."

"Especially while you were reading a book," agreed Ron.

"Although that is pretty much all the time," noted Harry.

"Day in, day out," agreed Ron.

"It's almost as though you read a lot, is what I'm suggesting," suggested Harry.

"Well, you do read a lot," agreed Ron.

Harry hesitated for a moment, which in a life-or-death conversation like this one was surely a fatal error.

Hermione lifted her book back to her face and prepared to ignore them.

"Which is good!" continued Ron, "because books are good, and you know things, and things, and..."

"Stuff! Things and stuff!" Harry was sure he'd lost his mind, but there was no undo button in real life. "So we came to ask you about something!"

"Having to do with some stuff," elaborated Ron, "or, more specifically-"

Hermione gave a little _huff_ of impatience. "Get to the point, will you? You're starting to sound like a directionless Fred and George."

Ron stopped talking, his face transported into a wonderment of familial pride.

"Er," Harry tried to remember what he was going to ask about. "Right! Elves. We want to know about elves."

Hermione raised one eyebrow. They'd found her - on their first try - in a little nook in the Library, which was conveniently enchanted with the privacy feature Harry had been shown previously. He'd made sure of that before interrupting her, considering the severity of the Librarian.

"And House-Elves," concluded Harry.

Hermione put her book down. "I haven't read many books on Elvish history," she admitted. "What did you want to know?"

Harry sat down in relief. When Hermione says 'a few books,' she usually has enough data to write her own trilogy. "I was wondering what kinds of Elves there are," he began. "Ron and I were talking about how Filch cleans the castle, and Ron told me it wasn't Filch, it was the House-Elves-"

"Castle-Elves, you might say," interjected Ron.

"Right," agreed Harry. "Castle-Elves. I'd never heard of Elves cleaning things for wizards before, I mean, I thought of Silvanesti and Sindarin and Greenwood and Feanor and all that. Which Ron had never heard of, he's only heard of these House-Elves, so I was wondering if Elves were anything like I thought they were."

Hermione raised her other eyebrow, which would have been rather more surprising if the first had still been elevated. "Your relatives had a copy of the _Silmarillion_?"

"School library," confessed Harry. "I only read the first couple of chapters."

"Are you still speaking English?" Ron was staring at them both with an expression of concerned confusion. "Or is this happy crazy time?"

Hermione gave a brief prayer for the insensitivity of boys, then turned to Ron. "Harry's thinking about elves from books, fantasy novels, Ron. I haven't found anything even remotely like them in _Hogwarts, a History_, or _Encyclopaedia of Mystical Creaturef_, or _Elves: Everything you wished you hadn't asked me_." She turned back to Harry, who was feeling a foreboding sense of impending not-that-kind-of-Elves.

"Not that kind of Elves, then?" he asked, miserably.

Hermione nodded. "Not by the name of Elves, at least," she informed him. "Sorry."

Harry felt a like having a bit of a good cry about that.

"So," said Ron, completely missing the nonverbal cues his friends were giving off. "What about the Elves we _do_ have?"

* * *

"That's horrifying!" proclaimed Harry, horrified. "Why would they _do _that to a race of sentient beings?"

Ron was confused again. "That's what House-Elves are for, though, Harry," he started.

"I can't believe that _Hogwarts_ has House-Elves!" added Hermione, who had just explained the concept of House-Elvery to Harry. "I thought they were better than that!"

"Castle-Elves," Ron advised. "And it's not like-"

"I know," agreed Harry, continuing to ignore Ron. "You'd think they'd have learned from all the uprisings against slavery, right?"

Hermione nodded. "But Wizards don't follow Muggle politics, and the House-Elves haven't _had_ any uprisings. I'm not sure if it's all the brainwashing, or if there's magic involved..." She shuddered. "I don't want there to be magic involved, that's just, just-"

"-what they _live_ for, really. Trying to free-"

"Unclean," finished Harry.

"-_like_ to work, it'd be like trying to save cows by not milking-"

"Exactly," agreed Hermione. "Unclean." She shuddered again. "I don't want to think _my_ magic could do something like that."

"-wish we had one, but Mum says we..." Ron realized he was being ignored. "Hey, have you two been listening at all?"

"Nope."

Ron sighed. "Then stop talking to each other about what _might_ be happening, and learn something! Here's how House-Elves work..."

* * *

"It's still slavery, Ron." The three of them had spent the entire weekend in heated arguments about the moral and ethical implications of House-Elves. Or, as Ron put it, 'what's wrong with that.' Admittedly, Ron had used that phrase as a question, but Harry and Hermione - as well as Seamus, Dean, and several Hufflepuffs - had pounded the idea of 'slavery equals wrong' into his head thoroughly enough for something to stick.

"I get that, really," conceded Ron. "But-"

Hermione glared at him.

"-just hear me out!" squeaked Ron. "If you tried to give them freedom, or payment, or stock options, or clothing, or rights, they'd all have apoplectic fits and burst into tears!"

"Doesn't make it right," stated a fourth-year Hufflepuff. Diggle somethingorother, Harry was still bad with names. "They're sentient - they're people. We should treat them like people." He unwittingly struck a heroic pose. "And if that makes them panic, we'll just have to find another way to respect them as free-thinking individuals."

"Hear hear!" proclaimed Hermione's newly-formed Human-Elven Logical Peace Effort Requisitioning Squad.

They'd spend two hours coming up with an acronym that didn't sound horrid, at Digwhatever's request.

* * *

"P-p-p-pop quiz!" shouted Quirrell. He'd been shakier than usual since the Halloween Troll Incident, and seemed to be trying to make up for it with extra homework.

The collected Gryffindors groaned, with the exception of Hermione.

"Verbal p-portion: identify this c-c-c-c- animal!" Quirrell twisted his wand about, wordlessly producing an illusion that spanned the front of the classroom.

Harry squinted at the mass of color and shadow, trying to make sense of it, and had just figured out that this was a blurry, moving image of a giant three-headed dog when Hermione shouted out "Cerberus!"

Quirrell immediately dismissed his illusion. "C-c-c- Right, M-miss Granger! The Cerberus, or m-more precisely _a_ Cerberus, rumoured t-to be d-d-descended from the original G-g-g-guardian of Hell!" Another wordless flick of his wand shot a sheaf of parchment into the air, each sheet unerringly streaking to an occupied desk. Harry was impressed - if Quirrell had been like this from the first week, he'd have had no complaints, stutter or no stutter.

Quirrell tried to explain what the parchment was for. "T-this is f-for the wr-written portion. D-d-describe the C-c-cerberus, including s-strengths, w-w-weaknesses, and any sp-sp-sp- unique properties. F-for extra credit, g-g-g- p-p-" Quirrell scowled at himself, "m-make a strategy for evading or d-d-defeating a C-cerberus in the event that you f-f-find yourself f-f-facing one. Y-you have t-t-t-t-t-" Quirrell's off hand clenched in frustration, his eyes raising in a silent plea for the ability to tell his students how much time they had for this quiz. "T-t-t-TEN minutes."

Sixty points to Gryffindor.

* * *

"Adequate."

Harry was sweating. He'd been sitting on the uncomfortably small stool in Snape's office, which was furnished more sparsely than before, for nearly an hour. So nervous was he about Thursday - which had found a true home in Snape's lessons - that he hadn't even noticed he didn't have a hateache.

"What?" Harry realized he'd just gotten a passing grade from Snape. Severus Too Scary For a Nickname, Never Praises Gryffindor, Fails Harry for Sneezing Snape, had just called whatever Harry was doing 'adequate'. Had he passed?

"Have I passed?"

Snape gave him a momentary glare, which prompted a twinge from Harry's scar. Still better than the head-splitting agony that he'd have had before Snape's training. "Passed? No. This is not a test that can be passed. You have grasped the basics of Occlumency, enough to slow an intruder. It is adequate." Harry's smile vanished. "Continue your exercises. We will begin the next phase of your training in two minutes."

Harry gulped. "Next... phase?" Was he going to have to learn mind-reading?

"You must learn to recognize when a Leglimens is attempting to access your memories. I doubt your shields will ever be sufficient to truly block an accomplished Leglimens, but simply knowing your mind is being invaded should suffice."

Harry gaped.

"Prepare yourself."

* * *

Thursday had struck with a vengeance. Harry could tell that Snape was doing _something_, sure, but the twinges in his scar were more about Snape's glares than any Leglimency.

Snape closed his eyes for a moment. "Enough. You have less skill in this than you have in Potions."

Harry cringed.

"Prepare your mind for next week's lesson. For the rest of the hour, I will test you for... other abilities."

"Abilities?" Harry blinked. "Wait, you want to train me in Leglimency?"

Snape looked at him without emotion. "No. I will never introduce you to that art. The chaos you would cause..."

Harry nodded, which won him a wry smile from Snape.

"What kinds of abilities will you be testing me for, then?"

Snape's smile grew deeper, losing mirth. "We shall test you for every sorcerous ability known to Wizarding lore. Prepare yourself."


	16. Chapter 16: New Toys

Harry Potter and the Garden of Intrigue

Being an exploration of the differences in Mr. Potter's life pursuant to his understanding victorian flower language at age 11. Primary Point-of-Departure: Harry has a working lightbulb in his cupboard.

Harry Potter, all related characters, and the original Harry Potter narrative are properties of J. K. Rowling.

Chapter 16

New Toys

"Prophecy... negative."

Snape had set up a complicated array of exotic devices, which he apparently kept in his desk. Apparently it tested for prophetic ability, although Harry was still skeptical about the speed of Snape's pronouncement.

"Er, how does it work?"

"Temporal magic," replied Snape, adjusting a few gimbals and curious coils. "What do you see?"

"Er, your office?" replied Harry. Snape flipped a tiny golden lever, and a beam of brilliant purple light shot across the room. "And now there's a beam of purple light."

"Temporal precognition, negative."

Snape flipped another lever, collapsing the array of jeweled filigree. He then whipped his wand through the air, setting a fire burning in its wake.

Harry stared at the fire, since it was burning in midair with no fuel.

"Testing for Pyromancy."

_Pyromancy? I get to control fire?_ Harry had a curious sensation that he was being watched.

"No, Potter," Snape informed him, "Pyromancy is the art of reading the flames, seeing truths and futures within them."

_Darn,_ thought Harry. _Wait, that was mind-reading._

"Correct. Your training continues indefinitely."

Harry stared into the flames. _I thought my shields were adequate, though._

Snape didn't answer.

_I guess being the best Leglimens in the castle means 'adequate' shields don't do much_, surmised Harry.

"The flames, Potter. Look into the flames."

* * *

Tuesday. Harry had failed every form of special divination and foresight, and Snape still refused to teach him Leglimency. He was starting to get the hang of catching Snape in the act of reading his mind, but it didn't seem to be getting any easier.

"The good news is, I might still have a gift for whatever the magic is that controls fire," concluded Harry.

"Pyrourgy," provided Hermione.

"Gesundheit," replied Ron. Hermione glared at him until she noticed he was grinning. "He's got me playing chess while he tries to read my mind, it's a great challenge," he bragged.

Neville shuddered. "He's teaching me how to trap Leglimens in scary memories." He cringed a bit at his own memories. "Got his eye to twitch last week with one of Gran's lectures."

This earned cheers from the other three. They had commandeered a private table in the Library, both for the secrecy and the convenient research materials. Harry was thumbing through a tome of rare Wizard talents, while Neville was reading one of the tamer grimoires form the Restricted Section.

"Er, Neville," asked Harry. "What's that book?"

Neville's book seemed to be looking at him. Hungrily.

"_The Memoirs of Herman Stuttle_," Neville told him. "Apparently he was more afraid than I was, and his terror bled into the pages, or something."

Hermione was shocked. "I've heard of Herman Stuttle," no surprise there, "he's mentioned twice in _Hogwarts, a History_."

Ron pulled a bag of Every Flavor Beans from somewhere. "Sometimes I think _everything_ is in _Hogwarts, a History_, the way you keep referring to it."

"Well, it's quite comprehensive." Hermione had brought her copy with her, although she was working through _Advanced Magical Theory_ and _Theoretical Thaumics_ at the moment. "I think Stuttle used to follow Godric Gryffindor around, and got himself into all manner of trouble." She turned to Neville. "Neville, can-"

Neville closed his book with a visible effort. "No," he stated, cutting Hermione off mid-request. "You can't borrow _The Memoirs_ when I'm finished. It's from the Restricted Section, it's not safe."

Harry wondered if this was the book that ate your eyes out while you read it. "Er, Neville," he asked, "What makes this one dangerous?"

Neville took a deep breath. "It shows you his fears," he explained.

"Well that doesn't sound-"

"Snape said I was ready for it after he caught Gran's angry face," Neville elaborated, "it puts you right there in the moment, facing weirwolves and acromantulae and sixty-foot troll kings, hearing the rustling in the dark, _smelling_ what he smelled..." Neville swallowed, possibly swallowing his fears, and continued. "It's feeling his fear, every bit of his fear," he stopped, trembling.

Harry and Ron were staring at him, and Hermione had actually stopped reading.

"Good book," muttered Ron.

* * *

"So, Hermione," asked Harry, "what have you been up to?"

They'd given Neville a bit of chocolate, and he'd stopped trembling, but he hadn't opened _The Memoirs_ again yet.

"Well," Hermione began, "I've been studying the underlying theory of magic. And learning all the spells in the Hogwarts curriculum. And researching better recipes for that potion. And practicing Occlumency." She paused for a moment. "And reading every book about magic and Wizarding history that I can find."

There was a moment of silence.

"_All_ the spells?"

Hermione blushed. "Well, yes, I'm up to third-year now," she admitted.

Harry was speechless. Ron was not. "Cor blimey!"

"What about Herbology?" inquired Neville.

Hermione smiled softly. "Second year. It's harder to learn about Wizarding plants when you can't study them personally."

Neville grinned, his fears forgotten.

* * *

"Pyrourgy, Chemourgy, Sanguiurgy, Semiourgy, Terraurgy, Ventourgy, Cryourgy, Aquiurgy, no mention of Electrourgy, bit of a disappointment there." Harry had found the Index in his _Sequence of Sorcerous Gifts_, and was listing all the coolest abilities. There were rather a lot of them.

"All of which grant power over a specific energy or material," clarified Hermione. "That's what the -urgy suffix indicates."

Harry skipped the rest of those. "Apparition, Wandless Wizardry, Animal Control, Overmind, Soul Resonation, Metamorphmagus, Thought-Hand, something called 'The Stare', Accelerated Physiology, Rituals and Contracts, Innate Pyxis, Authoritative Banishment, Gate to Beyond, Words of Power, Spelltaking," Harry was amazed at how many unique talents Wizards had had over the centuries. "Occlumency, got that already, Leglimency, don't get to learn that one-"

"Wait, why not?"

Harry grinned. "Snape has his own Code Apocalypse."

* * *

Ron had managed another Snitchless victory, this time against Ravenclaw. The final score was two hundred and twenty to one hundred eighty-six - the Ravenclaw team had managed the three-point penalty twice, as part of Ron's strategy - and Ron had once again missed the Snitch at the last minute. He'd managed to miss the wall this time, so that was something.

The victory party had been opened to members of all Houses, and Ron was gleefully discussing his part in the Gryffindor tactical planning. Two Snitchless victories by the same team was a historic occasion - Ron had proudly proclaimed Gryffindor the first team in Wizarding history to pull off such a feat - and the fact that these victories were consecutive simply added to his notoriety.

Hermione had presented her new, much-less-painful Potion of Pyroclastic Purification to Snape and Dumbledore for approval, and was in the running for the Rowena Ravenclaw Award for Scholastic Merit, the first Gryffindor to even be considered for the Award in over sixty years.

Neville didn't tremble anymore, and had begun spending time with Draco and Mr. Loom. Harry had noticed far fewer jibes and insults from that quarter of late.

* * *

Snape consulted a long roll of parchment, double-checking his list of potential powers. He then consulted a much shorter sheet of parchment, on which he had written exactly three notes.

Harry sat quietly, hoping the tests were over. He'd learned to harden his mental shields whenever he felt an intrusion, but Snape could still tell what he was thinking almost half the time.

Snape _hmmmed_ in a rather disappointed way. Harry was sure he'd sound the same whether Harry had all the rare talents or none of them.

"You have tested positive for two talents, Mr. Potter."

_Wait, didn't he write three things on the win list?_ Harry tightened his shields again, just in case Snape was being extra-sneaky with his Leglimency today.

Snape's brow furrowed. Harry began to sweat.

"You have a mild talent for emotion-driven spells," Snape intoned, shaking off his momentary silence. "And you have tested positive for Parseltongue."

_That wasn't on my list of cool powers,_ thought Harry, who hadn't looked up the definition of Parseltongue.

Snape looked at him for a moment. "Cool or not, Parseltongue is a rare and powerful gift, Mr. Potter. The last wizard to bear it was the Dark Lord."

_Crud,_ thought Harry, hardening his mental defenses. He'd been practicing Occlumency for months, and it still felt like Snape could just waltz in and read him as easily as ever.

"Simply stated, you have the ability to communicate with Serpents of all kinds. You can command lesser serpents with little effort. Take care when speaking to greater Serpents."

"Snakes?" Harry was, to be fair, disappointed. Some of the powers he'd been hoping for flat-out broke the rules of physics, placing the wizard beyond the limitations of space and time - he'd have been overjoyed with almost any of the -urgy powers, although Sanguiurgy was pretty ooky. But snakes?

"Snakes," confirmed Snape. "Pythons, vipers, Basilisks, Cockatrices, and if your luck is as foul as your last _diminishing draught_, even Nagas. Any legless reptile, any Serpent who hears words spoken in Parseltongue is doomed to forever remember them. Lesser serpents, the snakes you so casually dismiss, will obey your will with only the slightest effort. You can learn secrets, give orders, and even take the stopper from death."

Harry felt a peculiar sense of familiarity with Snape's speech, especially that last line. "Er, Professor-"

Snape silenced him with a glare. "This gift is seen as a sign of Dark magic, Mr. Potter. I would advise you keep it a secret from all but your closest friends."

"Right," agreed Harry, "but, um, do dragons count?"

Snape was rather surprised at that question.

* * *

Harry had stopped hunting Filch after the H.E.L.P.E.R.S. had been founded, but he still wandered the halls of Hogwarts from time to time, looking for secrets and lost rooms.

This night seemed particularly promising. The moon, waning and nearly gone, had risen late over the Forbidden Forest, and with the stars twinkling above it it reminded Harry of Dumbledore.

Harry hadn't spoken to Dumbledore since the Day of Memories, but the loony old wizard had left a good impression. Strange, yes, yet Harry wanted to trust the elder man.

_There's the armor with the three-bladed sword_, Harry noted. He'd always been rather confused by the design of that weapon. _And it's Friday, so the passage on the left leads to the fifth floor._ He didn't know if the phase of the moon would change this passage - Hermione said it mostly affected the lower levels and the towers - but there were portraits everywhere even if he did get lost. Admittedly he'd have to show his face for that, and Filch had a habit of showing up at exactly the moment anybody broke the Hogwarts Code of Conduct. _Come to think of it, maybe Filch has that temporal precognition thing._

Harry stopped walking. _Wait, if the House-Elves are the ones that clean the castle... why did the Professors try to hunt down the Troll? House-Elves have pretty strong magic, they could probably shoo the thing out of the castle._

If he hadn't been so lost in thought, Harry might have noticed the shadowy figures creeping up behind him, softly and quietly, with some very strange feather-plumed goggles on their faces. As it was he'd been completely ensnared by the possibilities of Castle Elves as guardians, making sure that every student was safe, that nobody died to an ill-timed prank -

_"Gotcha!_" shouted something, grabbing Harry's arms through the Invisibility cloak. Harry would have jumped at least three feet up if he hadn't been weighed down - even so, he pulled a good four inches of loft from sheer surprise. Looking left and right, he saw the faces of nightmares and terror.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUGH!"

Something pulled the hood from his Invisibility Cloak, and there was a sudden flash of brightness.

"Look at the look on your face!" cried the Face of Nighmares, capering about in a nighmarishly human way.

"Well worth the effort," said the Terror Visage, cradling an old-style camera in its terrifyingly fingerlike claws.

Harry inhaled. "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUGH!"

"Look, he's still making the face! Get another picture!"

_Click!_

"Oo-er, think that's better than the first," crowed Hideous Being of Terror.

"AAAAAAAAA-"

"Right, enough of that," said Nightmarish Fiend, clamping a hand over Harry's mouth.

"_mmmmmmmph_," objected Harry. He was beginning to think he'd overreacted.

"Don't want Filch down on us, do you?" asked Fred, pulling off his Mask of Terror.

"_mmph? mmph." _

George kept his Nightmare Face on, but released Harry. "We'll give you copies, don't worry," he informed Harry. The Twins then lifted Harry bodily, pulling him along through a side passage that couldn't possibly have been more than three feet tall before they entered it.

"Well, you and everybody else," Fred clarified, grinning widely. "Got to fund our experiments somehow, eh?"

Harry's eye twitched. "How did you, I mean, I was, you, how, how?"

The Twins exchanged a Look.

"Eloquent, isn't he?"

"Knows what he wants, this one."

George tapped the feathered goggles. "Reads the flow of air. Great for finding hidden passages, invisible creatures, and fresh-baked bread."

Fred tapped his temple. "Noticed some flowing breezes a few weeks back," he explained. "Figured somebody was sneaking about invisibly-"

"-Which we call doing things the _easy_ way-"

"-So we whipped up these to find out who it was."

Harry's eye twitched a bit more. "I never even-"

George grinned at him through the Nightmare. "We are _so _happy to hear that, Harry."

"Knowing an invisible man can't find us, well..."

"Tells us we're doing it right."

"Close thing, too, you were probably less than a foot from Fred, here."

Harry's other eye twitched, which to the outside observer probably looked like a blink. "You're Fred," he informed Fred.

"No, he's Fred," Fred advised him. "I'm George."

"You can tell, because George has a slightly larger nose."

Harry glared at George. "You're George." He turned to Fred. "You're Fred."

The Twins put him down. "What makes you think that, then?" they asked, in perfect unison.

"Fred's prettier," Harry stated.

The Twins looked at each other, George still wearing the Mask of Nightmares. "He's got you there, Fred," he conceded.


	17. Chapter 17: Trouble

Harry Potter and the Garden of Intrigue

Being an exploration of the differences in Mr. Potter's life pursuant to his understanding Victorian flower language at age 11. Primary Point-of-Departure: Harry has a working lightbulb in his cupboard.

Harry Potter, all related characters, and the original Harry Potter narrative are properties of J. K. Rowling.

Chapter 17

Trouble

Harry had been given the week off from Snape's training. Sadly, this didn't really help him, since it was the week of the end-of-year examinations. Hermione had nearly panicked, worrying she wasn't ready. Ron, in response, had fumed for about five minutes, then distracted her by asking for help with absolutely everything.

Harry and Neville had quickly added requests for help with their most troublesome classes - Harry was actually pretty sure he could handle Potions, now that he didn't get Hateaches - and Hermione had been giving advice and assistance to most of the first-year Gryffindors. She'd been helping a few of the second-years, as well, which hardly seemed fair, but then as Neville put it "Who says life is fair? Because they're lying."

Herbology was fairly straightforward, the written portion was just the safety practices they'd been using the whole year, and the practical was another normal day in the Hogwarts Greenhouse gardens. Neville, in particular, was looking forward to second year when they'd start working with the really dangerous plants.

Defense against the Dark Arts was similarly simple, although Quirrell had used plenty of wordless magic to give them visual aids. His popularity as a teacher had skyrocketed since the day of the Pop Quiz.

Quirrell had them detail the traits of common Vampires, with extra credit for the names of the most famous Wizard Vampires, the qualities of the Jade Court or the Samsara Kail, and the various legends of vampiric origins. He'd also added a bonus section asking for a description of Mountain Trolls, with extra House Points for a working strategy to defeat one using only the tools in the D.A.D.A. classroom. Hermione felt it was a shameless ploy to give more House Points to Gryffindor, but Harry pointed out that Draco, at least, would definitely have a few ideas. Not to mention Mr. Loom, who could probably handle a small troll all by himself.

Astronomy ended without incident, although Harry wasn't nearly as sure of a passing grade in that one. He'd enjoyed the discussions between Hermione and Sinistra throughout the year, and it had been fascinating to watch science and legend meet, sometimes clashing, sometimes complementary. It did make it difficult to answer questions confidently, though, when there were conflicting - and equally authoritative - stories for every star.

History of Magic was incredibly dull, as always. Harry wrote until his eyes got blurry, then leaned back and chatted with Ron. Hermione glared at them.

"Oy, Harry, you should visit the Burrow this summer," Ron whispered.

"Burrow?"

"My house. You can get away from your relatives and we'll hang out, it's the perfect plan!"

Harry nodded. "How will I get there, though?"

Ron thought for a moment. "I'll get back to you on that one."

* * *

The final examination for broom-riding was actually pretty fun. Ron got a free pass since he was in Quidditch already, and had a practice scheduled for the same day. There was to be a Quidditch match just after the last examinations as a celebration and last-ditch effort to win the most House Points.

Charms was a bit trickier, but Harry had gotten pretty good at using magic. He was almost certain he hadn't failed.

Hermione, of course, held herself to a rather higher standard than 'not failing'. She seemed to think that she'd let herself down if she didn't get at least a perfect score.

"How do you get better than a perfect score, anyways?" asked Harry.

"Extra credit," Hermione told him. "Just like on Professor Quirrell's test."

"Huh," said Ron. "I usually use that as a buffer, makes it easier to get a passing grade."

Hermione sighed, implying a sense of frustration with all who seek to reach the minimum level of competence.

* * *

Potions was almost pleasant. Harry's head was clear, he was surrounded by friends, and his _loquacious liquid_ had turned out the most delightful shade of purple. If not for Snape's continual dour demeanor, Harry might have thought it the best examination he'd ever taken (a position currently held by his brief stint as School Cake Examiner). He started to see why Hermione tried so hard to be good at _everything_. If excellence felt like this all the time, well! Harry wanted more.

Unfortunately, the final examination of the year was also the hardest. Transfiguration, with Professor Do Not Cross McGonnagal. Transfiguring anything into a snuffbox was hard enough, and Harry was very glad they'd been given a chance to look at McGonnagal's personal snuffbox as a reference, but transfiguring a mouse? This was only their second experiment with animals, the first having been the transformation of a shrew into an eggcup, and Harry had only managed to turn the shrew's fur and claws into silver. Admittedly, this was because he'd been worried about harming a helpless animal and didn't put his heart into it, but still, he was nervous.

After three or four minutes of self-doubt and uncertainty, Harry decided he'd better give it his best shot - the partial transmutation he'd inflicted on the shrew had been shiny, but entirely impractical for both eggs and shrews. Harry readied his wand and began the process.

About halfway through the examination, with his mouse very box-shaped and studded with sapphires, Harry realized that Transmutation was the only class that had taught them any wordless wand-magic. Sure, some of the transmutations they'd learned used incantations, but most were slow, steady work using only wand and willpower. Harry wondered about that for a few minutes, then realized the tail on his mouse had started turning into a tuning fork.

At the end, Harry had made a jewel-encrusted balsawood snuffbox that played 'chopsticks' when opened. He really had no idea where the music came from.

* * *

The last Quidditch match of the year - Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff. Compared to Slytherin's tricks and Ravenclaw's strategy, Hufflepuff was expected to be an easy match. Oliver Wood disagreed.

"They don't rely on cleverness to win," he explained. "They're all about hard work. They train hard, they study hard, they practice their moves for hours, and it shows. Next to us, they've got the best team in Hogwarts - two wins, no losses, same as us. Their Keeper's a keeper, their Beaters are beasts, and the Chasers might even give our star squad a hard run."

Oliver sighed. Harry and Hermione (as well as Neville, Draco and his minions, and several older Gryffindors) had come to wish Ron good luck - and remind him that the Snitch, you know, that little shiny gold thing, you're supposed to _catch_ that, genius, in the case of Draco Malfoy - only to be caught up in Wood's traditional pre-game motivational speech.

"And their seeker, this Diggory chap, he's a shoe-in for Head Boy in a few years. Good in all his classes, even Potions -"

"Impossible!" cried Fred.

"Inconceivable!" echoed George.

"I've done that," Hermione cautioned them.

"-and a master of the broom, as well," continued Oliver, ignoring them. "He hasn't pulled anything like our Mr. Crimson, true enough, but he's got a seventy-five percent rate at catching Snitches." Oliver took this moment to glare at Ron.

"Setting records, Wood," Ron called, scarcely noticing the heat of his captain's gaze. "What's the threat?"

Oliver kept glaring. "The _threat_, Ron, is that you haven't caught a single Snitch since you got signed on. Victories aside, we need you to keep your eyes open - Diggory won't just be floating about waiting for the Snitch to show. He'll be _hunting_ for it."

Ron snapped a perfect salute. "Sir!" he shouted, then shook himself out of it with a grin. "I've got some ideas for Diggory, Wood. Don't worry." He looked at his team. "Can we try for one more Snitchless victory?"

Oliver grumbled. "Pull off a Gledon and you can skip the Snitch," he conceded.

* * *

"And there's the Gryffindor's patented Flanaghan Open-Heart maneuver, what a wild match this is, folks! Hufflepuff in possession, now Gryffindor, now Hufflepuff-"

Harry grinned. "Think he'll pull it off?"

"Of course!" shouted Neville over the roar of the crowd. Gryffindor had managed to score again, bringing the score to one-twenty to seventy favoring the scarlet and gold. As the cheering faded, Neville's voice settled into a more conversational tone. "He wants that Snitchless victory more than Mr. Loom wants his own personal bottle of Skele-Gro."

Hermione's nose wrinkled. She'd finally picked up a book on Quidditch - _Quidditch through the Ages_ - and had been splitting her attention between it and the match. "Skele-Gro?"

Neville stared at Hermione in incredulous confusion. "Er," he explained, clearly shocked that Hermione _didn't_ know something.

"What, I never said I knew everything about _everything_."

Neville took a long pause while Gryffindor scored again. "Wow. I mean, Skele-Gro is a potion that makes bones grow back," he elaborated. "There's a rumor that it makes you bigger if you drink it when you don't need it."

Hermione nodded. "And that's how we get all the answers," she retorted, smiling slightly. "By asking questions. Thank you, Neville."

"AND THE GRYFFINDOR SEEKER HAS SEEN THE SNITCH!"

* * *

"This is a first for our century's youngest Seeker, folks," Lee Jordan reminded the audience. "He's played two games here at Hogwarts, and won both of them without the Snitch - some are wondering if he's a living _Felix Felicitas_ for the Gryffindor team - and, good gravy, he's still accelerating!"

Ron was going far faster than Harry'd seen him go before, his hand stretched out in front of him. With the Hufflepuff Seeker hot on his broom-bristles, Harry couldn't blame Ron for that extra bit of speed.

"It looks like our Seekers have forgotten where the ground is - it's right in front of you, boys - I don't believe this, he's _still _accelerating!"

There was a moment of silence as Ron lunged, his broom less than two feet from the ground.

The world exploded.

* * *

Harry lurched to his feet. Ron had _twisted_ somehow, and the air around him had gone all bright, rushing out in a massive dome. When the blast front had hit the stands, it had blown the entire audience over backwards - Harry could only guess what had happened to the players, out there in the thick of it.

_Glasses - there they are - _Harry straightened his glasses, noticing a new crack in the left lens. _I'll have to get Hermione to fix that later_, he thought. He glanced around, confirming his friends were all uninjured. Aside from a bit of battering, which Harry was starting to feel himself, no-one seemed too badly hurt from the explosion.

"...skrkle..._vvvvvvhn_... thing still work? Yes? GREAT!"

Harry turned back to the Quidditch pitch, and the chaos that Ron's maneuver had wreaked. _Wait, was that a-_

"Ladies and Gentlemen," called Lee Jordan's voice, "May I have your attention please?" The audience, less a few rattled stragglers, finished picking itself up. Harry noticed two of the Gryffindor Chasers had managed to keep their bearings, and were racking up points at an alarming rate.

"_THAT_," shouted Lee with deafening volume, "_WAS A GLEDON TWIST!_"

* * *

"Not to mention a flawless Wronski Feint by the Gryffindor Seeker," Lee added wryly. "Let's see how our players are doing, shall we? Can we get a time-out, please?"

The sound of Madam Hooch's whistle pierced the babel sound of the excited crowd.

"Wait, you mean that whole time they were still playing?"

Harry couldn't help himself. He grinned at Hermione. "Yes! Gryffindor must've gotten over a hundred points before the whistle!"

The effects of Ron's legendary maneuver on the Quidditch pitch were, put shortly, catastrophic. He had aimed for the direct center of the pitch in a rare moment of foresight - _not that rare, actually_, thought Harry. _He's been pulling tactics and strategy for his team the whole time_. Whoever had claimed that the Gledon Twist produced a house-sized crater had been exaggerating, but only slightly. Either that or they had a smaller house than Harry was used to.

The Hufflepuff Seeker, Cedric Diggummy, _no, wait, Diggory. Right. Remember that._ Diggory had been thrown the farthest by the blast, and was dangling by the foot from one of Gryffindor's goal hoops. The rest of the Hufflepuffs had been rather disoriented, but had pulled together, and were flying in a surprisingly steady formation to go retrieve their Seeker.

Gryffindor, having expected Ron to pull something like this but underestimating the power of the Gledon Twist, had managed to avoid total casualties in the aftermath of the blast. Wood had hidden behind a goalpost - allowing Hufflepuff to score again - and had been back on duty within seconds. Kable _stop it, it's Katie Bell_, and Angelina had taken Ron's dive as a signal to get higher, allowing them the rapid-fire scoring that Harry had noticed.

Fred and George, on the other hand, had both suffered mild concussions from the Bludgers, which the Hufflepuff beaters had sent their way fully expecting retaliation. The four of them had been having a grand time playing a private game of Bludgerball, with the rest of the players as course hazards.

"Right," announced Lee, "Looks like we'll be back up in about a minute here, folks. As a quick reminder, the score before the blast was seventy to one hundred thirty, Gryffindor leading. The current score - gmlph!" Harry flashed another grin at Neville, who shared his ebullience. Lee had just noticed the increased Gryffindor lead. "Professor, is this right?"

Professor McGonnagal was keeping an ear on Lee, making sure he didn't say anything... untoward. "It'll do, Mr. Jordan. Let the score stand."

Lee's grin was _audible_. "Let's hear it for Gryffindor, folks! Current score is eighty to four hundred and fifty!"

Harry blinked. They'd made _that_ many points? "That's-"

"The largest point difference in Quidditch history," confirmed Hermione. "Beating out-"

"-Blonowski versus Himmeldorf," Harry finished.

"And that was just one guy," Neville marveled. "Incredible."

"Ready! PLAY!"

The whistle blew.

Diggory caught the Snitch.

* * *

Harry stumbled back from the after-party, which had been mind-blowingly amazing. He was glad the whole school had turned up for this one, so he didn't have to pity them for missing out. Draco had publicly proclaimed his support for "the finest Seeker Hogwarts has seen in my time," raising a tankard of Butterbeer towards Ron - and then, naturally, concluded with "Cedric Diggory!"

Ron hadn't cared. He'd been interviewed, with the rest of the team, by a reporter from the _Daily Prophet_ - some fellow with a big nose - and they'd taken a group photo. The reporter, _Jackanape? Jack Annep? _Jack something, had promised he'd try to get them on the front page. After all, Ron had just made history as the youngest Seeker in a hundred years, youngest player to survive a Gledon Twist, inventor of the Flanaghan Open-Heart, co-strategist with Oliver as the first team in Quidditch history to pull three Snitchless victories - not to mention three _consecutive _Snitchless victories - and of course their record-breaking lead.

Hermione had been momentarily disappointed that it wasn't a record-breaking score, but Ron had pointed out that that distinction was, as far as he knew, forever held by Young Bintny and the Hereford Hecklers, who had racked up an incredible twelve thousand and sixty-four points in the legendary two-week Quidditch match of 1407.

"Cheese Curdles," croaked Harry.

"Correct!" replied the portrait guarding Gryffindor Tower. Harry had left the party before midnight, and was the first of the Thunder Room residents to return to the tower. He noticed Hermione curled up by the fire with another book - _Experiments in Ephemeral Essences_, by Vernor Vernorsson, according to the spine. Harry let her be, dragging himself upstairs to his bed.

On which he found a few petals of Hand Flower, a Rhododendron, and perhaps most frighteningly a leaf of the Judas Tree.

_Warning. Danger. _Harry pulled himself from the warm haze of butterbeer and celebration. _Betrayal._

He ran to the window, whistling for Iris. She'd been waiting for him, a scrap of parchment clutched in her talon.

Harry hugged his owl, fumbling with the message she'd brought. To his surprise, it was just a scrap - a torn fragment of scroll, with a meaningless scribble on it. Harry didn't understand. Who was in danger? Who had betrayed whom?

He looked at the scribble again. _Huh,_ he thought. _Kinda looks like a snake from this angle._

Harry smacked himself in the forehead. He squinted at the scribble-snake, trying to call his one special talent from deep within his soul. "Talk to me," he whispered, pushing his will into the words.

Nothing happened.

"Augh, what am I doing?" Harry focused again, thinking of snakes, serpents, hissy scaly things. His scar twinged. "_Talk to me_," he hissed again, speaking to the parchment.

The scribble moved. _"Name,"_ it commanded, its voice the scratching of quills.

"_Er, Harry Potter,_" Harry replied. "_Who_-"

"_Message begins. The Stone is at risk. Dumbledore is away. We cannot hunt the traitor, we must guard against him here. Gather your friends and assault the third-floor corridor. Bring an instrument, your singing voice is expected to disappoint. Message ends." _

Harry trembled. "_Can you repeat that?_"

The scribble coiled in on itself, and the parchment caught aflame.


	18. Chapter 18: Trial

Harry Potter and the Garden of Intrigue

Being an exploration of the differences in Mr. Potter's life pursuant to his understanding victorian flower language at age 11. Primary Point-of-Departure: Harry has a working lightbulb in his cupboard.

Harry Potter, all related characters, and the original Harry Potter narrative are properties of J. K. Rowling.

Chapter 18

Trial

"Hermione!"

Hermione put down _Sixty Ways to Ruin a Cauldron_. "Done partying?"

Harry nodded. "No! Yes. Something else! Weren't you reading a different book five minutes ago?" He shook himself. "Mission! We have one. Danger, uncertain goals, high chance of death, vastly outnumbered and outmatched. Come on!"

Hermione gave him an odd look, one eyebrow crooked. "Have you been at the butterbeer, Harry?"

Harry raised his hands, the tension hardening his fingers to resemble claws. "_Gaaaah_," he admitted. "Yes. One. Draco suggested it, very tasty. Not important. Secret message, danger, a stone, probably bad things."

Hermione gave him the same odd look. "Harry, slow down. I don't understand you."

Harry felt as though he were about to cry from frustration. He took a deep breath anyways, as listening to Hermione's advice tended to make life easier. "Somebody's going after a Stone in the third floor corridor," he began.

"The one that Dumbledore said we shouldn't go into unless we wanted to die horribly?"

"_Yes_, that corridor. Dumbledore's gone, Iris brought me a message, we need to get our friends and stop a traitor."

"Hmmm," replied Hermione. "What about the teachers?"

"Busy protecting the rest of the castle."

"The Castle Elves?"

Harry blinked. He'd forgotten his theory of Elvish Protectors until this moment. "Er, if it's a traitor it's either a student or a teacher," he said, thinking as he spoke. "The elves can't betray the betrayer."

Hermione nodded, validating Harry's wild theory. "So we have to do it? Why not Cedric, or some seventh-year students?"

Harry shrugged. "You think Cedric could beat you right now?"

This earned a blink from Hermione. "I... guess you have a point."

"Mission," repeated Harry. "Danger, powerful foes, high chance of death. You in?"

"Where are the boys?"

* * *

They found Ron immersed in chocolate. The party was still going strong, but the Prefects - those that were still lucid - had started escorting the younger students home.

"I'm in," he said, once they had roused him. "But I'm pretty sore after that Gledon. Pomfrey had to dose me with some Quick-Cure, you know how that stuff is in a crisis."

Harry had forgotten that Ron was at the center of the Gledon. He'd assumed Ron had been safe, like being in the eye of a hurricane. "Right, keep to the brainy stuff then." He felt the presence of a large, looming person. "Hi, Vincent," he said, without turning.

"Are you going to explain yourself, Harry?" Draco inquired, flanked by both henchmen for the first time in months.

Harry pondered that for a moment. On the one hand, Draco was the favorite of Slytherin House, and had minions. On the other hand, Draco was good friends with Neville, and had minions. And of course Harry wanted to keep his friends out of danger. _And minions. Come on! _"Secret mission," he explained. "Danger. You in?"

Draco mulled it over while Hermione retrieved Neville from the bacon-covered praline table. "Ah, fine, but if anyone asks-"

"You were setting me up for a double-cross," agreed Harry, familiar with the expectations of Slytherin House. "And you're so good at it that I took you anyways."

-Draco smiled.

"Mr. Loom? Mr. Stalker?"

Gregory pulled out his Legaliser, switched it off, and said "Much as my marrow melts at the prospect of probable personal pain, I can candidly concur with the sentiment expressed by my senior Slytherin. Adventure accepted."

Hermione gave Harry an arch look.

Mr. Loom loomed in a manner indicating agreement with the previously mentioned dangerous proposal.

"Seriously," asked Harry, "how does he _do_ that?"

* * *

"I've got the flute Hagrid gave me for Christmas," Harry told them, "and I can move unseen when I wish, by creeping quietly and carefully-"

Draco snorted. "Like anyone gets past Filch by creeping carefully and quietly," he sneered. He was far more surprised than Harry at the hands which grabbed him from the darkness.

"They do," said Harry, "and I learn from the best."

Fred and George released Draco. "And how've you been, Mr. Stalker?"

"Passable."

"We hear you're aiming for the third-floor corridor," said George. "Good luck with that one - we've only gotten up to the fourth room."

"You might be able to manage, Ron," advised Fred. "Room number Four is right up your alley."

"Shut it," said Ron.

"Suit yourself," said the twins in that eerie unison of theirs.

Draco leaned over to Harry. "And how do _they_ do _that_?" he whispered.

Harry shrugged. "Can you get us there?"

Fred winked at him. "We'll cover your path, Mr. Carefully and Quietly-"

"-You take care of old Snapeykins."

It took a few moments for Harry to understand what George was implying. "Wait, what- oh. _Oh_. Right." He nudged Ron. "We'll take care of _Snapeykins_."

"Er, right! Snapey... kins."

"Let's get going," suggested Neville.

* * *

They reached the third-floor corridor without incident. "So," Harry inquired. "What's behind door number one?"

The Twins glanced at each other. "Should we tell him?"

"No, it's better if he finds out on his own."

"But maybe with Snapeykins inside-"

"We might decide to give a hint-"

"It's a Cerberus, right?" The Twins broke out of their monologue... duologue... thing, and stared at Hermione.

"Well how did you-"

"-figure that out?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Witch's secret," she told them.

The Twins glanced at each other.

"You know, Fred," said Fred, "I get the feeling we're not wanted here." George sighed theatrically.

"Ta," they intoned, whisking themselves away before any objections could be raised.

"Really? A Cerberus?" Draco managed to imply, purely through facial expression, that Harry and the Gryffindor Four were a bunch of suicidal idiots - not that there was any doubt, them being Gryffindor and all. "How are we supposed to get past one of those?"

Harry was troubled as well - even with Quirrell's pop quiz on the subject, which seemed far more suspicious in light of this revelation, he knew next to nothing about the three-headed beasts. "Well," he said, stalling for time, "Hermione?"

Hermione shook her head. "I don't know any spells for incapacitating a Cerberus, they're very resistant to Wizard magic. And I doubt we'd all be able to pass it with that careful quiet creeping of yours. I have a strategy for running away, that's all."

Harry sighed. He pulled out the flute he'd brought, wondering if it had any connection to this task - but why would Snape know about a giant dog-monster guarding this place, and not Quirrell? They were both teachers, wouldn't they have access to the same knowledge?

No, they wouldn't, would they? Snape had Dumbledore's full trust, while Quirrell had just been hired this year. Harry gripped the flute, sure he'd found the way. He recalled being sure of things that didn't work out before, of course, but surely this time would be different.

"I may be able to render assistance in this matter," said Gregory. "My ancestral occupation is not, as my phraseology may imply, related to the application and interpretation of legal quandaries - rather, I am descended from a well-established tradition of canine husbandry, tutelage, and management. In layman's terms," he cleared his throat, "my father trains guard dogs."

Harry held his flute out. "Will this help?"

Mr. Stalker took the flute, smiling. "My friend, most amicable acquaintance, it could not possibly produce a precedent of pugilism."

"What?"

"Can't hurt," translated Hermione, a starry look in her eyes. "And I think he did that without the toy."

Gregory grinned. Harry was tempted to think that Gregory grinned ghoulishly, his gleaming grinders glistening in the grim and gritty grotto, but it wasn't true. Greg's grin was genial and genuine. He even had healthy gums.

He pulled the Legaliser MK IX out, still switched off, and handed it to Hermione. "Keep it," he told her. "The secrets it sequesters have been sought by me successfully."

Hermione was visibly stunned, cupping the silvery bauble in both hands as Gregory turned to the door, flute in his left hand, and tore it open.

* * *

"What was that all about, anyhow?" asked Ron as they filed into the chamber. Greg had waved them in after a few seconds, the flute held to his lips, but hadn't started playing it yet. It was obvious why - a golden harp was strumming itself, keeping the monstrous hound safely slumbering.

"Ah, I like alliteration," Hermione admitted.

Ron _hmphed_.

"Aha!" called Harry, who had found the way forward. "Mr. Loom, can you help me shift this paw?"

Mr. Loom lifted the paw easily, shoving it off the trap-door Harry had discovered.

"Thanks."

Mr. Loom grinned. He also loomed. _Good gravy_, thought Harry. _He's as tall as Ron. Twice as wide, too_.

Beneath the trap-door was darkness, stretching patiently into itself farther than Harry could see. Harry noticed that Greg had started playing the flute; his melody threaded through the last strains of the harp's music almost beautifully. For an eleven-year-old, it was pretty impressive.

"Looks like we'll have to jump," said Neville. "I'll go first."

* * *

The devil's snare had proven a problematic cushion for their fall. Neville had figured out its purpose in ten seconds flat, managing to gasp a warning of "Quick, make a fire!" before it circled his neck and started squeezing.

Hermione had complied admirably, scattering the vines and sparing Neville a grisly fate.

They had wandered through the darkness for a while, searching for the next room. By Harry's count, this hall full of birds was room number three.

"No, they're not birds - they're _keys_!"

Harry tried the door at the far side of the room. "No good, it's locked."

"We'll need a large silver key for that," advised Ron. "Probably all smushed up, too, if it's been used already."

Draco snapped his fingers. "Got it." A broom whipped through the air, landing in his upraised hand as though made for it.

"Again, I have to admit that's pretty cool," said Harry. "Hey, there's more brooms over here!"

"Don't bother," Draco warned. "Ron can't catch a Snitch to save his life, and the rest of you aren't qualified to Seek at all." He smiled. "Don't feel bad, though. Not everyone is destined to be important."

Ron fumed, flushing to the roots of his hair. He jumped, one of the brooms from the wall _zipping_ to catch him before he could fall. "You're on, Malfoy," Mr. Crimson ground out through clenched teeth.

Harry wished he'd brought a snack.

* * *

"_By two inches!"_

"A loss is a loss, Weasley," taunted Draco. "Can't catch a Snitch, and never will."

"Hey," Harry called, "look!"

They had passed through the room of keys, and now found themselves in an equally massive chamber. The stone grid ahead of them held gigantic stone figures, girded for battle and clearly suffering the damage thereof. To the sides of the battlefield were numerous shattered forms, whether of stone or flesh Harry did not wish to know. Dust hung heavy in the air, and Harry knew it was the dust of the fallen, likening it to the pallor of death that hangs above the living when war has torn them down.

It was a chessboard. A huge, bigger-than-human chessboard.

"Room four," breathed Ron, his feud with Malfoy forgotten.

"I expect participation is mandatory for those who wish to cross," said Mr. Stalker, eyeing one of the Bishops. To his surprise, the statue nodded, beckoning him to join the ranks of the Black Side.

Ron was chuckling. "Right, Harry, take the place of that bishop," he advised, "and Hermione, you take that castle next to him. Greg and Vincent take the other side, same pieces. I'll take the Queen's Knight, Draco, you take the King's Knight-"

"Not likely," Draco shot back. "I'll take the king!"

"_Fine_, Draco takes the king," Ron agreed, rolling his eyes. "Neville, _you_ take King's Knight."

"Nobody's taking the Queen?" asked Harry, confused.

"Nah, that'd be suicide."

* * *

Ron had played a nearly perfect game, claiming ground with every move, taking a white piece for every pawn he sacrificed. But he'd reached his limit.

"I can't win without sacrificing one of us," he called out. "But just one - then it's two moves to victory." He pondered for a moment. "Right. Draco, step forward and let the Queen take you down."

"But I'm the _king_," Draco whined. "If I get taken, we _all_ lose."

Ron sighed. "You're right. Dangit." He pondered a bit more. "Well, if I can't axe Draco, it'll have to be me," he admitted. "And White might just claim Gregory as well."

"I knew the risks when I took the job."

"Good man. Right, I'll axe myself, then Neville, you take E6. That leaves Greg open, but also puts their king in danger. One move from Harry, either way- Harry, you'll need to take three squares to your left."

"Er, I'm a bishop," Harry noted. "Is that forward left, or backward left?"

Ron smacked himself in the face. "Harry, there's only two squares behind you. Forward left. _Gaaah_."

"Right," said Harry.

* * *

The next room was a shock to all of them - Harry had never smelled anything so vile, and he didn't think he'd be much use in a fight with this much concentrated _stank_ assaulting him.

_"TROLL!"_ shouted Hermione, prompting a bit of Deja Vu. The four remaining children - Neville had decided to keep watch over Ron and Greg after the White Queen struck them down - immediately drew their wands, looking for the monster.

"_MOVE!" _shouted Mr. Loom.

_Amazing, _thought Harry, _even his words loom_. He was then shoved to the side by Mr. Loom, saving him from the crashing blow of the eighteen-foot-tall troll.

Harry had never seen a troll before. It was not an experience he relished. The brute's knobbly skin was scarred in so many ways, in so many places, that Harry suspected there was more scar than skin. Its face was a study in surreal vileness, bubbling with noxious fluids that couldn't possibly be healthy. Harry realized he was looking at troll bogeys.

That brief impression was all his mind could take in the fleeting instant between swings. The troll was relentless, bringing its ridiculously huge club smashing down at them again and again, never slowing, never hesitating. Mr. Loom had saved Harry only once. With the troll's second swing began a mad dance for survival.

Whoever had put this troll in the dungeon - _wow, that seems terribly ironic in retrospect, since it probably was Quirrell that managed both trolls to begin with -_ had checked the room perfectly. The troll could swing that preposterous club with ease, reaching even the farthest edges of the circular chamber, and there was nothing for Harry to defend himself with.

Harry tried a Sleeping charm, but his aim was so fouled by panic that he hit the ceiling instead. _At least I didn't hit one of my friends_, he thought. Honestly, Harry was amazed that the troll hadn't hit anyone yet.

"_Engorgio_!"

Harry was amazed to see a figure looming behind the troll. _Looming - that must be Vincent_. The troll, for its part, was even more amazed. Hermione sent another red jet at its eyes, while Draco dodged a side-swipe from the club as the troll turned.

Vincent punched it in the nose.

* * *

The troll howled in pain, its club forgotten - and providing excellent cover for Harry, Hermione and Draco - as it traded blows with Vincent Crabbe.

"So, Draco," Harry started in an even, conversational tone. "Where did Vincent learn to box?"

Draco stared at him, hyperventilating. "Really? You ask that now?"

"Well we can't shoot spells at them, we might hit Vincent!"

Hermione nodded, though her wand was at the ready.

Draco continued to hyperventilate. "Er, I think his father taught him. He might have had lessons. I don't know."

Mr. Loom slipped the troll his left, trying to convince it to stay down. It didn't take.

"Wait, you don't know?"

"_I'm panicking!" _

"Lovely time for it," replied Harry. "Really," seeing the look on Draco's face, "I mean that. What better time to panic than when your last remaining minion is going toe-to-toe with an eighteen-foot troll?"

Hermione was muttering about mass-energy conversions.

"Crabbe is out there fighting for his life, are you making _jokes_?"

Harry nodded. "Always. Life without humour is dry, dull and dead."

"Look at him," sobbed Draco. "He's dying out there."

Vincent's face did indeed resemble a puffy tomato more than a human visage. "I've had worse," Harry stated. "Loads of times."

Draco stopped hyperventilating. "What?"

Vincent landed another uppercut, shattering two of the troll's teeth. New ones began to inch forward from the row behind.

"Wow, trolls have shark teeth?" Harry turned to Draco. "Right, like I said. My cousin used to use me as a punching bag, and I'd have a face... just like that," he said, pointing at Vincent. "It was pain and misery, but I don't think I was really in mortal danger."

The troll managed to land a solid on Vincent's gut, staggering the overgrown boy.

"GO VINCENT! CRUSH HIM LIKE A GRAPE!"

Draco stared at Harry like he'd just turned into a sort of giant hairy spider.

"What, did I turn into a spider?"

"Do you ever?"

"Nah."

Hermione started mumbling about first-aid spells.

"Come on, cheer for him. It helps."

Draco hesitated.

Harry turned back to the fight, where Vincent had managed to run the troll out of teeth in a few places. "COME ON! GIVE HIM THE HAYMAKER!"

"Er, beat him like, ah, an uppity Muggle, Crabbe!"

Harry gave Draco a side-eye.

"What? Stop looking at me like that!"

"Mind your language, Draco," chided Hermione.

"YEAH!" cheered Harry. Vincent had finally knocked the troll down, but he was in terrible shape himself. "KEEP HIM DOWN!"

"SMASH HIS HEAD!" ordered Malfoy. "HIS CLUB'S RIGHT HERE!"

Hermione's expression lit up. She stood, swishing her wand in a familiar motion. "_Wingardium Leviosa!" _

Vincent's self-enlargement spell dissolved as the log the troll had been using rose into the air. Hermione swished her wand again, and the log flipped through the room, braining the troll right in its misshapen cranium.

"_Owww..._" mumbled Vincent, whose injuries seemed to have grown as his body shrunk.

* * *

Hermione had managed to stop the bleeding somehow, but Vincent was down for the count. They'd hauled him back to the previous room, asking Neville to keep an eye on him. Neville pulled a packet of herbs from his robes, a haunted expression in his eyes.

"This'll keep him stable, at least, until we get out of here."

Harry had then taken Draco and Hermione forward to the next room, pausing only to check the stone shackles Hermione had transmuted from the floor.

"I guess the castle didn't mind you locking this one up, eh?" asked Harry.

"Probably because it's been here so long," agreed Hermione. "I don't think they'll ever get the stink out of that room."

The next chamber held a spartan table, with seven bottles arranged on top of it. Harry was immediately reminded of Snape's office, although he'd never seen any potions there.

"Look, it's just an open passage to the next room," said Draco, pointing. "Whoever we're chasing must have solved this chamber properly."

As if in response to Draco's insolence, curtains of roiling, infernal flame shot up both ahead and behind. The fire forward was black, while that in back was purple.

"Well, that's ominous," said Harry.

* * *

"_-twins once you taste them, though different at first sight_," read Hermione, finishing the poem. "Brilliant!"

"Er," Harry tried to interject.

"Agreed," agreed Draco. "Logic puzzle."

"Yes, a logic puzzle," Hermione confirmed, sounding a bit put out at Draco's quick comprehension. "Not magic at all. And since most wizards don't have an ounce of logic-"

"I'll race you," Draco offered. "First one to finish gets to go forward with Harry."

"What? Why me?"

"Deal." Hermione turned to the bottles, counting off and muttering to herself. Draco, meanwhile, picked up the scroll with the riddle on it, glancing between it and the bottles.

"What?"

"One of the bottles gets you through the black fire," Draco told him. "While one gets you through the purple."

"Too bad there's only enough in the blackfire vial for one person," agreed Hermione. "I guess Harry faces destiny alone."

"Oh, I guess this might help, then." Harry pulled a small vial from the inner pocket of his robes. "Snape gave it to me after... Remedial Potions, said it protects from the blackest of flames."

Draco stared at them both. "I can't believe this. You solved the puzzle that fast?"

Hermione smiled at him. "And now I get to go forward. Neener neener."

"Why my dear Hermione," Draco began, clearly forgetting his opinion of her, "such vulgarity! And I thought you were better than petty insults."

Hermione glared at him.

Draco gripped Harry by the shoulder. "Good luck, friend. You'll need it with her by your side."

Hermione stuck her tongue out at him.

"Well, this party is fabulous, but I've got people to meet," said Draco, taking a swig from the bottle furthest to the right. "Later." He pocketed the last bottle on the left, and walked out through the purple flames.

"Right," said Harry. "So we're in this together, then." He paused. "Er, what are we expecting through the black?"

Hermione looked at him. "...a traitor?"

"Quirrell, probably," admitted Harry. "It fits with the Cerberus and the troll and everything, and I know it's not Snape in there."

Hermione nodded. "Then what's the stone you mentioned?"

Harry shrugged. "Dunno. They sent me, though. And the only enemy I know is the Death Eaters..."

"Voldemort's henchmen. So the Stone is something they want?"

Harry shrugged again. "Either that or something their boss wants."

"Oh, come on, Harry. Voldemort died. You have the scar to prove it. They even found his body!"

_Thrice I shrug and done_, thought Harry. "Look, we live in a world of magic. Sauron came back, Dark Pegasus came back, the White Queen came back, or tried to anyway. If Voldie's followers are still around, maybe there's a way to bring him back, too."

"'Voldie'?" Hermione smirked.

"What? Nicknames are my other superpower."

"Next to being the Boy Who Lived and talking to snakes."

"And a wizard!" objected Harry. "That's a superpower!"

Hermione nodded. "Oh, I think I know what the Stone is," she said. "The Philosopher's Stone, sometimes called the Sorcerer's Stone. It can turn lead into gold, and grant immortality, who's to say it can't bring back You-Know-Who?"

Harry nodded. "_Hogwarts, a History?_"

"No, actually," Hermione corrected him. "This was in _Ancient Alchemical Artisans_. I was reading it as part of my potions research."

Harry nodded again. "So we're going in there to deal with Quirrell, however many Death Eaters he's gathered, and whatever Dumbledore still has guarding the Stone. Or something completely different."

"Are you ready?"

"Yes," said Harry, not wanting to nod thrice so soon after shrugging thrice. "But I don't want you dying."

For the first time that night, Hermione looked a bit fearful. "Right," she said grabbing the smallest of Snape's bottles.

Harry uncorked his special vial. "Cheers."


	19. Chapter 19: Tribulation

Harry Potter and the Garden of Intrigue

Being an exploration of the differences in Mr. Potter's life pursuant to his understanding Victorian flower language at age 11. Primary Point-of-Departure: Harry has a working lightbulb in his cupboard.

Harry Potter, all related characters, and the original Harry Potter narrative are properties of J. K. Rowling.

Chapter 19

Tribulation

"Hi, Professor Quirrell," said Harry.

Quirrell spun, shocked at the sudden appearance of a small child with only one year of magical training. "How-"

"Well," said Harry, while Hermione crept invisibly behind him, "it was the Pop Quiz that gave you away, really. Cerberus in the secret corridor, Cerberus on the pop quiz... that and the trolls."

Quirrel cursed. "Grubbly-Plank did the troll. I was in charge of the lock on the door."

"That was locked?"

Quirrell sighed. "No matter. Soon I'll decipher this final puzzle, and my master will be free once more." He snapped his fingers, turning back to the mirror behind him, and Harry was instantly encircled by ropes.

Harry could hear Hermione gasp, and started struggling against the ropes to cover the sound. He fell over, but with a bit of squirming he managed to get his face off the floor.

Quirrell was still staring into the mirror. "I can see it, I'm presenting the Stone to him..."

_Either he's crazy, or we were right and the Stone is hidden here somewhere, _thought Harry. _Could be both._ Glancing around the room, he saw nothing of particular consequence. Quirrell, mirror, walls. _No Death Eaters, at least_. _Unless they're invisible.  
_

Harry took another look at the mirror. At least ten feet high, gold frame, creepy bestial claws instead of normal furniture feet. Clearly made by wizards, and it was probably magical... Harry tried to think of different magical mirrors he'd read about, but none came to mind. _Probably comes of living in a house whose most interesting fiction was 'The Count of Monte Cristo.' Actually, that one was pretty cool. I'll have to try that if I ever get left for dead in a pile of money. _Harry wished he'd had more time with the school library.

"Is this a sign of things to come," mused Quirrell, "or of things that may be, only?"

Harry noticed Quirrell wasn't stuttering anymore. "Er, Professor, why are you after the Philosopher's Stone?"

Quirrell looked at him, then. The man's eyes were crazed, filled with fear, madness, and determination. Harry didn't want to know what Quirrell had done to earn such eyes. "My master," Quirrell told him. "He needs the power of the Stone, to live, to escape the cursed fate _you_ inflicted on him."

Harry would have pumped his fist in triumph at having called Voldemort's return, if he hadn't still been tied up. "So Voldemort didn't really die?"

"Ahaaahaaaa," said Quirrell. Harry assumed the sound was meant to be a laugh. "Didn't die? He took his own _Avada Kedavra_ to the face, boy, did you think he'd survive that?" Quirrell made that horrible not-laughter sound again. It reminded Harry of a stray dog he'd seen once, which Dudley had stepped on accidentally in one of their many games of Hunt Harry and Beat Him To a Pulp.

"Er," Harry suggested, paying more attention to the probably-magical mirror behind Quirrell. "I think there was an explosion, I remember an explosion after the green happened."

There were words inscribed on the mirror's frame. From the look of them, they'd been part of the original design. _Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi. _

"The green - y-you remember that night?" Quirrell trembled for a moment. "Yes, the explosion. Some say it was the power of the Dark Lord unleashed in full, others claim it was an exposed gas line. Given that it left you unharmed, I'd side with the former."

_Erised stra... wonder if 'oyt' is an article or a conjunction,_ mused Harry. "Eh? Right, could be both, I guess." _What language is this, anyways? It's got English letters, but it's not any of the Romantic or Germanic languages. I don't think it is, anyways. _

"You guess? You _guess!_" Quirrel seethed, sputtering for a moment. "Not - _hnnnnnn_," he muttered, turning back to his reflection again. "I'll deal with you later, boy."

Harry ignored him. _I guess it could be a code, or a lost Wizard language or something. Magic words? _

"Yes, yes, I've seen this part already," Quirrell mumbled. "But where is it actually hidden?"

Harry thought that Dumbledore would probably hide a magical artifact of incomparable power somewhere unexpected, like the third square stone from the bottom on the south-east wall in a room with a giant magic mirror in the middle. He kept his Occlumency up, though - if that really _was_ where Dumbledore had stashed the Stone, he'd rather Quirrell didn't get any bright ideas.

"Is it... is it _in_ the mirror?"

Harry shifted a bit, and looked into his reflection.

_Good lord, that's a lot of books._

Quirrell twitched.

_And look, all my friends are there, too... who's the red-haired lady, there?_

Quirrell hesitated. "Should I break it?" he asked.

Harry broke free from the scene in the mirror. "No way, you'll have seven years' bad luck," he advised. "Plus whatever curse the mirror's got." _Whoops, I shouldn't have told you that._

Quirrell started looking at the mirror's frame. "Perhaps there's a hidden catch in the scrollwork here."

Harry ignored him again, turning back to the mysteries of his nonreflection. _Wait, she's got green eyes... it's like looking in a mirror._ Harry chuckled.

"What do you know, boy!" roared Quirrell, whirling to glare at Harry again.

Harry realized his chuckle had been taken as _schadenfreude_. "Er, nothing, really," he admitted. "Just thought my reflection was humorous."

Quirrell's eye started twitching.

There was a sudden whisper, just on the edge of hearing. For a moment Harry thought Hermione was blowing her cover.

"...use... -oy..." The whisper had come from Quirrell's ever-present purple turban.

Harry had a sudden sinking feeling. He also had a suspicion about Voldemort's current abode, especially considering the mess Hogwarts had made of Dean Thomas' walkie-talkies.

"What?"

"Master, please," begged Quirrell, "do not strain yourself!"

"...silence... worm... the boy..."

Quirrell nodded, raising his left hand. Harry felt himself pulled from the floor by invisible strings, the ropes evaporating as more magical bonds took over.

"Wait, this is weird. What are you doing?"

Quirrell frowned at him. "Tell me what you see, boy," he ordered, dragging Harry to the mirror.

Harry stared into the warped reflection. "Well, there's about a million books, and my friends are all around me," he reported with absolute honesty. "Behind that, some people I haven't met - they look familiar, though," he said, smiling. "Like I'm looking into a mirror."

Quirrell snorted. "Very funny. You think I don't know your secrets? You think Dumbledore's favorite can get off telling me he only wants books and friends and family?"

_Family? Oh! Oh oh oh oh oh oh! _Harry locked his gaze on the mirror, wanting only to remember the face of the woman he was pretty sure had been his mother. He was a bit surprised when the mirror complied with his unspoken wish - especially considering his Occlumency, clearly the mirror didn't work on what you were _thinking_ - and showed him his mother and... _Dad?_

"Tears won't save you either, boy," Quirrell informed him. "Tell me what you see - the truth, this time!"

Harry felt his Occlumency slipping, and let it fall, figuring Voldemort was probably a Leglimens even if Quirrell wasn't. He felt the touch of an alien mind almost instantly, and focused on the reflection again. "I see..." he choked a bit, emotion flooding his senses. "I see my parents, looking back at me."

"As do I with every mundane mirror I've ever seen. The Stone! What of the Stone?"

Harry ignored him. "They... They love me. They're proud of me. I think Dad wants me to kick you in the shins." The reflection nodded, a goofy grin on his face. Lily's image rolled her eyes, smiling.

"...truth..." whispered Probably-Voldemort.

Quirrell cursed again. "Out of the way, boy!" he spat, pushing Harry aside.

Harry kicked him in the shins as he fell again. He closed his Occlumency, as well, pushing what was almost definitely Voldemort's seeking thoughts away from his mind.

"_Thsssss!_" hissed Quirrell, hopping about in mild pain. Harry felt the threads of magic that still bound him dissolving. "Away!"

With another gesture, Quirrell pushed Harry back towards the flaming passage. Harry didn't know how long his Blackfire potion would last, but he hoped he'd have a chance to find out - later. He stayed still, waiting for the next blow, but Quirrell had returned to his study of the mirror.

As Harry stumbled to his feet, he heard the voice of Quirrell's master again. "...let me see him... face to face..."

"But master-"

"Grant me... this, you simpering fool... I _fell_ to this one, once..."

Quirrell bowed his head in defeat. Harry gasped, loudly, as Quirrell removed his turban - there was a _face_ growing out of the back of Quirrell's skull!

Well, no, not exactly a face. More of a pale mist, shaped with eyes and a mouth. Harry assumed the thing he was seeing borrowed Quirrell's ears, and _no nose! On its face, there is no nose, no nose on its face! That's worse than having no eyebrows!_

"So, Harry Potter," the mist sussurrated, "we meet face to... face."

"You've got no eyebrows, either," Harry told it. The mist hissed in displeasure, reminding Harry of the snake Snape had used to test him for Parseltongue. "Voldemort, right?"

The mist scowled at him. "I am Lord Voldemort," it whispered, struggling for breath. "The great and powerful. Tremble before me... Potter..."

Harry didn't bother covering his terror. "Eesh, at least you don't have Troll stank. What's wrong with your face?"

Again, the mist twisted in a manner that resembled scowling. "Since that fate-filled day... I have become mere shadow and vapor... taking form only when I share another's body... Quirrell, my... servant, has sustained me with Unicorn blood..."

Harry remembered Hagrid talking about a strange beast that slew Unicorns, just a few weeks ago. "Wait, why do you need to be sustained? You survived dying."

_Again with the thrice thing_, thought Harry as Voldemort scowled yet again. "Sharing Quirrell's form... is taxing on us both... I cannot retain even this shape without great effort... And I do not seek to claim his body... for mine..."

The implications of that last part silenced Harry, as Voldemort continued with his monologue. "But with the Philosopher's Stone... the Elixir of Life... I will create a new body... Immortal and perfect..."

Harry's mind supplied a few alternative methods, and he tightened his Occlumency just in case Voldemort was still looking. "And then you retire and live out your days in the Galapagos Islands, researching medical spells and funding the politicians you don't hate?"

Voldemort _hissed_, rather like a boiling pot. "No... I will claim England... Scour the corruption that plagues it... Rule the Wizards of this land..." He paused, drawing breath. "Join me..." he offered, "Find the Stone, help me to live again... I will spare your life, allow you to endure..."

Harry shivered. "What do you mean by corruption?" he asked, stalling for time as he tried to think of something - _anything - _he could do against a fully-trained wizard and Voldemort himself.

"Muggles... Political favoritism..." Voldemort began to warm to his subject, speaking more stridently. "The complacency and decadence that has consumed the heart of Magical Britain... I will forge a new age of wizardry, an age of the strong, where death comes only at worthy hands... never from sickness or age... never to the Wise..."

Harry noticed a few key issues in that plan. "You mean you'll kill whoever you don't like."

Voldemort sneered. "The weak fools who oppose me have already chosen their fate... but you can survive, if you serve me..."

"I don't believe you!" Harry blurted. "You're evil - you killed my parents!"

"Fool! Your death will herald the dawning of _my triumph!_"

Harry shook with fear, knowing Voldemort had a point about death.

"SIEZE HIM!" screamed Voldemort's face. Quirrell turned, expressionless, and lunged for Harry.

Harry wondered why Quirrell had opted for a physical attack when he was clearly competent with wordless and even wandless magic. _Wait, Voldemort said it's hard to talk - hard on both of them..._ Maybe Quirrell _couldn't_ use magic right now!

_And maybe Harry should dodge before Quirrell reaches him. _Quirrell's hands closed around Harry's fragile eleven-year-old neck, and Harry's scar exploded in agony.

Spears of pain lanced through his entire body, white-hot icicles of agonizing cruelty, and Harry screamed. Quirrell screamed, too, jerking back, steam rising from his hands as though he'd been choking red-hot fire.

"KILL HIM!" shrieked Voldemort, incoherent with rage. "_APPEASE ME AND END THIS ETERNAL DUEL!"_ Quirrell pulled his wand out, lurching to his feet, his eyes dead as Harry was about to be, and toppled as a red jet of power struck him in the temple.

"Well, that was close," Hermione gasped, pulling off the Invisibility Cloak. "_Expelliarmus_." A wave of invisible power washed over Quirrell, throwing his wand - and several small knives, a silver cross, two wooden stakes and a vial of glittering fluid - across the room.

"I'll say," agreed Harry. "Cutting it a bit close there, weren't you?"

"I was terrified!" squeaked Hermione, her voice lending credence to her claim of cowardice. "That - that - that was _Voldemort!_"

"..._vermin... I shall destroy you..." _

Harry and Hermione both jumped, scared beyond all reason; Quirrell's unconscious form hadn't moved, but the white mist of Voldemort's face had coalesced, rising from Quirrell's body, and had formed a fearsome silvery snakelike visage in the air above the fallen wizard.

_Aaaaaaaaa_, thought Harry.

Hermione shot another bolt of red light at the apparition, then one of blue, but both passed through it without any apparent effect.

"..._you first..._"

The whisper seemed to come from every stone in the room, rather than the vaporous fiend they now faced. Its maw opened, impossibly wide, revealing very sharp-looking fangs, and it flew at Hermione.

Harry leaped into its path, screaming "_Leave her alone you malevolent murderer!_"

The fangs pierced his arms, breathing white-hot death into his veins, and Harry screamed for the second time. He felt as though his scar were a real lightning bolt, welded to his prefrontal lobes, the electron flow obliterating conscious thought.

* * *

_Glittery golden gewgaws, _thought Harry. _Is that a Snitch? Can't be, I don't play Quidditch_.


	20. Chapter 20: Recovery

Harry Potter and the Garden of Intrigue

Being an exploration of the differences in Mr. Potter's life pursuant to his understanding Victorian flower language at age 11. Primary Point-of-Departure: Harry has a working lightbulb in his cupboard.

Harry Potter, all related characters, and the original Harry Potter narrative are properties of J. K. Rowling.

Chapter 20

Recovery

Harry blinked. It wasn't a Snitch at all. It was a pair of glasses. How strange.

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was smiling at him. More importantly, the old looney's eyes were twinkling merrily. Harry didn't know what made a twinkle merry, any more than he knew how Vincent managed to loom in a party-inclined manner or what day it was, or why he wasn't dead after Voldesnake bit him in the soul.

"Good afternoon, Harry," said Dumbledore.

Harry blinked again. Still Headmaster Dumbledore. "What?"

"You are currently reclining in the last kindly house of Hogwarts," Dumbledore told him. "It is three o'clock Saturday afternoon, and your friends are quite safe."

The raid on the third-floor corridor had been Friday night. Harry hoped it was still the same week. "Er, Headmaster, what happened to Voldemort?" Harry looked at himself. "For that matter what happened to _me_?" He was swaddled in bandages from the neck down. There were a few areas that seemed clear - his left leg, for instance - but there was more of him bandaged than unbandaged.

Dumbledore sighed. "When Voldemort attacked you, he nearly destroyed himself. Both last night, and ten years ago." Harry had nearly forgotten about that first encounter. "Unfortunately, this time he nearly destroyed you as well. From your symptoms, it appears that you were poisoned - not with venom, but with Voldemort's hatred."

Harry shuddered.

"Indeed," agreed Dumbledore. "If not for the quick action of Miss Granger and her perfected potion, I suspect you would not have survived."

"Hermione!" gasped Harry, remembering his last moments of consciousness in the dungeon. "What happened to-"

Dumbledore _shushed_ him. "She's perfectly fine, Harry. I expect she'll be along in a few hours."

Harry relaxed. _Dumbledore did say my friends were safe, after all._ "Wait, this is Madam Pomfrey's medical wing."

Dumbledore smiled. "I believe you wanted to know what happened to Voldemort?"

Harry nodded.

"While it appears that he was sustained by his own hatred-"

"And unicorn blood," Harry interjected.

"Oh?" Dumbledore frowned. "What a pity. Now, where was I... Ah, yes. When Voldemort attacked you, he expended the strength he had gained from Professor Quirrell. He has diminished, and I can find no trace of him in the castle."

"...but he's still out there," finished Harry. "He's not dead, is he?"

"No, Harry, he is not." Dumbledore's eyes were barely twinkling at all, now. "Not being truly alive, he cannot truly die... And he shall seek power again. The lust for power and the fear of death are all that remain of him, now."

Harry contemplated that for a moment. "But Voldie was talking about corruption in the Ministry of Magic, and ending disease, too... Wait, what about Professor Quirrell?"

Dumbledore took on a pained expression. "I am sorry to say that Professor Quirrell is currently on trial for crimes too numerous to mention," he informed Harry. "And the courts will likely pass his verdict before dinner." He smiled wryly. "I suppose I should look in on them soon."

_Right, he's Head Mugger of the Emporium. Or something._ "Er, right," said Harry. "Just..."

Dumbledore stood. "Yes, Harry?"

"What was that mirror, anyway?"

"The Mirror of Erised, you mean?" Harry nodded. "It is an ancient object, reflecting the desires of the heart. It is a very dangerous object, Harry - there are many wizards who have lost themselves in that reflection."

"There's one other thing that bothers me, Headmaster," Harry admitted. "Quirrell thought the Stone was in the mirror... could he have gotten it?"

Dumbledore smiled again. "I think not, Harry. Quirrell wanted to use the stone, and to give it to Voldemort. He saw his heart's desire in the mirror, but it would not show him how to _find_ the stone." The eyes were at full twinkle once more. "Ancient magical objects are something of a hobby for me," the old man confided. "Now, enough questions." He gestured at the table beside Harry, which was piled with more types of candy than Harry had room for. "You'd best get a start on these sweets."

Harry pulled a Cocoa Beam out of the pile, causing several sub-stacks to shift precariously. "Take one with you, Headmaster," he said, holding the packet (The Tastiest Color of Light!) out to Dumbledore.

Dumbledore smiled at him, accepting the sweet. "I don't believe I've had these before," he said, opening the packet, and a ray of brown shot into his mouth. "Mh!" said Dumbledore, surprised.

* * *

"Five minutes, no roughhousing, don't get him excited," said Madam Pomfrey. Harry could hear Hermione and Ron behind her, and was pretty sure his heart rate was up just from the idea of seeing his friends.

Vincent had been recovering in the cot next to Harry, and had a stack of candy rivaling Harry's own. He'd only been awake for two minutes, at around four o'clock, but his face looked like a face again. Madam Pomfrey had said he was suffering from Post-Transmutive-Strain Disorder.

Ron and Hermione barreled into the room, closely followed by Draco, Neville and Gregory. Harry suspected Fred and George would pop out of nowhere at the opportune moment.

"Harry! You lived!"

"_Ron_," warned Hermione. "We're glad you're alright, Harry."

"Rumours have been spreading at an alarming rate," Greg noted. "We'll need to corroborate our stories to avoid confusion."

Harry smiled. "You all made it out safe, eh?"

They nodded.

"Great! What's been happening?"

They explained, chipping away at his stash of candy. After Harry had tackled Voldemort's not-a-ghost, and been subsequently saved by Hermione, Dumbledore had torn through the challenges and brought them all back to Madam Pomfrey for safety. Once she'd certified that Quirrell wasn't going to die, he'd been carted off to Snape's office for interrogation - and then spirited away to the Ministry of Magic for a trial.

Hermione had insisted on testifying at that trial, given her personal observations of Quirrell's actions, and - with Gregory's help - had managed to keep him out of Azkaban.

"It's a horrible place, Harry, they should be _ashamed_ of themselves." Harry was surprised to see tears in her eyes, and resolved to find out what Azkaban was at his earliest opportunity.

"We were forced to overplay the psychological trauma of Obliviation, rather than appealing to their human decency," Greg elaborated. "When we convinced them - with the aid of the senior Malfoy - that losing a portion of one's memory was more terrible than the depredations of Dementors, due in part to the permanent nature of the spell's effects and the precision with which Obliviation can be applied by a skilled practitioner, the opinions of the court began to align in our favor."

Ron looked grim. "And the fact that it basically destroys the Quirrell that tried to kill you didn't hurt either."

Quirrell, given a choice between death, Azkaban, or immediate memory wiping, had unhesitatingly opted for the memory wipe. He was currently being prepped for the first official Major Obliviation sentence, after which he'd be sent to St. Mungo's for rehabilitation and observation.

Dumbledore had arrived just in time to see the Wizengamot agreeing - by a thin margin - with a twelve-year-old girl, and voting against three hundred years of despicable tradition by giving a major criminal a sentence _other_ than Azkaban.

He'd cheered at the top of his elderly lungs.

Neville, Draco and Ron had been in the observer's seating for moral support.

"Probably shouldn't have brought Scabbers," admitted Ron. "He's afraid of crowds."

* * *

Hagrid had brought Harry his grades and a large leather book. He'd passed all his classes, even managing to pull through on Transfiguration, though Astronomy was tied with Potions for the lowest grade. "I guess Snape still hates me," he guessed, although it was probably more due to his constant errors in the first three-quarters of the year. He opened the leather tome.

Hagrid smiled as Harry's heart stopped. Harry couldn't speak. He hoped his expression got the point across.

"I knew ye'd like it," sniffed Hagrid.

"...thanks, Hagrid."

They sat there for a few minutes in companionable silence.

"Oy, Harry, I was wonderin'," Hagrid asked, "'ow'd yeh manage ter get past Fluffy?"

_Fluffy? _"Wait, the Cerberus?"

Hagrid nodded. "I raised 'im from a pup, I did. No more loyal guard in this world than a good dog."

Harry shook his head. "Hagrid, never change."

"Don' plan on it," Hagrid agreed.

"Er, Fluffy's immune to a lot of Wizard magic, right?"

Hagrid smiled proudly. "Everythin' from mind control ter the Killin' Curse," he said, proudly. "Though I'm not sure 'bout that last one, ter be honest. Might'a just been a bit o' tha' breeder's hype."

Harry thought about it. "Makes sense, though, if he's a guard for the land of the dead."

"Righ' enough," Hagrid concluded. "Leastwise 'is granddad was one."

Harry hesitated. "Er... when we got to him, he was asleep. There was a harp playing music. We just slipped right past him."

Hagrid's jaw dropped. He started trembling, the joy fleeing from his eyes. "Music? Yeh mean... the Enemy'd gotten past 'im with music?"

Harry opened his mouth to console Hagrid, since at least Fluffy was still alive, but-

Hagrid howled, rattling the windows. Harry was rattled, too; he hadn't known Hagrid could _make_ such a sound.

"WHO TOLD 'IM?"

"Hagrid, what-"

"WHO TOLD THE EVIL HOW TO GET PAST 'IM?" screamed Hagrid, his eyes black with fury.

"I don't know!"

Hagrid stopped shouting, but his face was twisted into an expression of such incomparable rage that Harry scarcely recognized the man. After a few seconds of tension, Hagrid pulled his hand across his face, letting out a slow breath. "Right, I'm sorry, Harry."

Harry said nothing.

"You need yer rest, not a great lump like me comin' in an' shouting at yeh," Hagrid said, by way of apology. Madam Pomfrey, who had just stuck her head around the corner to see what was going on, nodded.

"It's alright, Hagrid," said Harry. "What was that about?"

Hagrid sat in the chair by Harry's bed again. "Fluffy loves a bit o' music, see," he explained. "Puts 'im right off ter sleep. But I 'aven't told that ter anyone but Dumbledore - and you, now - I can't figger how the Evil managed ter find it out."

"Well," said Harry, having an idea, "They say that music tames the savage beast, right?"

"Ah, Fluffy ain't a beast, 'e's just a big ol' softie."

Harry disagreed, but he though it best to keep quiet on that point. "But Quirrell wouldn't see that," he suggested. "He'd see a deadly Cerberus guarding a door." He thought of something else. "Come to think of it, Fred's brothers said they'd been up to the fourth room, so they must have figured it out too..."

Hagrid stopped breathing.

"Er," said Harry, realizing his mistake. "I shouldn't have told you that..."

* * *

"I'm sorry!"

"Hear that, Fred? He's sorry!"

"Yeah, and we haven't even _started_ on him yet."

The Twins had, true to form, popped out of nowhere just after Hagrid left. George had Harry in a headlock and was rubbing his scalp, while Fred had pulled out a feather - phoenix, by the look of it - and was preparing to tickle his toes.

Harry panicked. "He was so mad, and sad-"

"And bad and glad-"

"-hey, pictures of your dad!"

Harry looked at them both. "You're a riot, you know that?"

They nodded. "We figured out Hagrid's pet in about a week, right after start of term-"

"But we didn't figure Quirrell's pop quiz had much to do with it, since Cerberus is on the fourth-year creature curriculum."

"For care of magical creatures, not D.A.D.A., but he could have been working in tandem with Grubbly-Plank."

Harry couldn't quite remember where he'd heard of Grubbly-Plank before. "Who?"

"Part-time teacher here, takes tea with Hagrid of a Wednesday."

"Decent teacher, but she's not all there-"

"Not since the incident with the Landshark, at least-"

"You'll meet her in your third year if you both live that long."

Harry felt they were getting a bit off topic. "But what about Fluffy?"

The Twins shared a glance. "That old softie?"

"We made a game of it. Play ball, tug of war, give him some steak-"

"He loves his steak, that one-"

"Fred here was practicing his aria and Fluffykins just dropped off."

Harry didn't believe it.

"No, really," said Fred. "We go visit him on Tuesdays, just after lunch."

"Then we do secret things in the heart of the castle," added George.

"And Hagrid?"

The Twins grinned at him. "We like Hagrid."

"Sharp eye, keen nose, hard to get anything past him."

"Needed a challenge anyway, with Filch so predictable."

"That's all right then," said Harry, relieved. He recalled one of George's earlier statements. "You've found the heart of the castle?"

"Well, left ventricle at least."

"Could be the spleen."

"We'll show you next year, if you catch us."

* * *

Harry managed to escape the Medical wing - with Madam Pomfrey's grudging blessing - just in time for the End-Of-Year feast.

"Tonight they announce the winners of the House Cup," Ron chortled. "With our Quidditch wins, we're sure to take it!"

Harry stopped him. "Except that Fred and George have been running around pranking all the teachers this week."

Ron's face fell. "But-"

"Don't worry about it. You got the Quidditch Cup, didn't you?"

Ron's face rose up from its grave, shining with holy light. Harry had to shield his eyes. "And an exclusive in the _Daily Prophet_!"

"Right," said Harry, hoping that particular blast of fame would stop fanning Ron's ego soon.

They entered the Great Hall.

* * *

The feast had been magnificent. Harry made a note to visit the Castle-Elves next year, when he wasn't so injured, and thank them for a job well done.

Dumbledore stood, raising his hands, and the Hall hushed in anticipation.

"My friends, it has been a very exciting year at Hogwarts," he began, launching into a speech about harmony and friendship and academic excellence. Harry took another piece of walnut brittle.

"-And now," thundered Dumbledore, knowing he'd exhausted his students' attention span, "let's see who wins the House Cup this year."

Riotous applause.

"In fourth place, with two points, Gryffindor!"

"Wait, did he say _two _points?"

"-can't be right-"

The Weasley twins stood, bowed, and shouted "Glory to Gryffindor!"

Dumbledore nodded to them.

* * *

"And finally, to Harry James Potter, for unflinching courage in the face of death, I award two hundred points."

Ron grinned at Harry. "D'you reckon we win?"

Hermione shook her head. "He gave us six hundred, but Slytherin got two hundred for Draco and his minions. We'd need another fifty-eight points just to tie," she said.

"And now," Dumbledore added, "A word from our professor of Defense."

Shocked silence.

"Hello, everyone!" said Professor Quirinus Quirrell, his stutter completely vanished. "It seems like only yesterday I was sitting at one of those tables, wishing and wishing that my House would take the Cup." He cleared his throat. "Probably because that's the last thing I remember."

More shocked silence.

"They tell me I taught Defense Against the Dark Arts this year, betrayed the trust of the entire school, and tried to murder two students. Rather exciting, even if I don't know why. However, due to the timely intervention of young Master Potter and Miss Granger, I was brought to justice before the Wizengamot."

You could have heard a Boggart blink in the silence Quirrel's statements evoked.

He continued. "The usual sentence for such crimes, of course, is Azkaban prison - usually for life, although that's not long in those conditions."

Harry noticed that Quirrel's hands were bandaged, probably from the burns he'd suffered in the Room of Erised. He didn't notice Hagrid wincing.

"But again, the intervention of Miss Granger saved me from unconscionable acts. Her arguments, I am told, reduced my sentence - or increased it, as the Wizengamot views things - to summary Obliviation of all memories leading to the hideous acts I am said to have attempted."

Whispers broke out across all four tables.

"Is that really the Defense Professor?"

"Can't be, he's not stuttering."

"In gratitude for the services rendered by Miss Granger, and as my final act in the position of Professor of Defense, I would like to award Gryffindor House fifty-eight points."

* * *

After the noise had died down a bit, Dumbledore stood again, raising his hands for - of all things - more silence. "We have an unprecedented occurrence today," he began.

"Not really," murmured Hermione. "There was a tie for House Cup in 1883, between Hufflepuff and Slytherin. They made two slightly smaller Cups for that year."

Harry wasn't even surprised.

"-tie for the honor of House Cup," continued Dumbledore. "According to school regulations, this means that Gryffindor and Slytherin will both receive the honor this year."

Harry covered his ears.

"I will leave you with this little bit of wisdom," concluded Dumbledore, after the noise. "Never tell a stone which way the wind is blowing."

Harry laughed. "Still a looney."

* * *

They arrived at King's Cross without incident. Harry was relieved, while Ron was a bit disappointed.

"See you next year, then?" asked Harry.

Ron looked at him. "This summer," he corrected. "You're coming to visit, Mum won't take no for an answer."

"That's... frightening," Harry decided. "But still, how do I get there?"

"I'll get my dad to bring his car around."

"Wait," Harry stopped walking in surprise. "Your dad's a wizard. Why does he have a _car_?"

Ron just grinned at him. "You'll find out when you visit," he said, clearly enjoying his current role as mysterious man of mystery. "Is next week good for you?"

"Er, yeah," Harry agreed. "How long can I stay?"

"Mum wants to keep you until Second Year," Ron admitted, rolling his eyes. "But since that's ridiculou-"

"Great! I'll be ready on Tuesday," interjected Harry.

Ron was stunned. "Wait, what?"

"What's all this, then?"

Harry turned. If it hadn't been for a year of dealing with wizards, Snape, a magical rearranging castle-labyrinth, Snape, a giant Troll, Snape, Ron's brothers, Snape, Code Apocalypse, Snape, Voldemort, Snape and Snape, he'd have been terrified at the sight of Uncle Vernon.

As it was he was just a little skittish.

THUS ENDS BOOK ONE

-O-

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	21. Chapter 1: Home at First

Harry Potter and the Garden of Intrigue

Book Two

Being a continued exploration of the differences in Mr. Potter's life pursuant to the events described in the preceding book.

Harry Potter, all related characters, and the original Harry Potter narrative are properties of J. K. Rowling.

Chapter 1

Home at First

Life with the Dursleys had been quiet. Harry kept jumping at the sound of the house settling, or Iris returning from a moonlight hunting trip - he was expecting some kind of vengeance, either from Dudley for losing access to television for a week last summer or from Uncle Vernon for... well, for Harry being a wizard.

It was a long eight days to Tuesday.

* * *

Uncle Vernon had the distinct misfortune of opening his own front door. This was not an uncommon occurrence, though in most cases Vernon felt rather more fortunate. For starters, it was _his_ door - he owned it, frame, form and fiddly-bits. That was more than most of his employees could boast. Furthermore, he usually opened this door for himself, whether coming or going. On the rare occasions that Vernon Dursley opened his front door for someone _else_, he was almost always certain that the person on the other side of his door was, like him, an honest, down-to-earth and above all _normal_ human being. Most days, Vernon felt himself quite fortunate to be able to open his own front door.

Today was not like other days. This person was not like other people. Vernon did not feel fortunate.

* * *

Harry heard the car arrive - he'd already sent Iris to find the Burrow, with a letter of introduction to Mrs. Molly Weasley. He was pretty sure Iris knew not to come back to Privet Drive.

By the time Harry had made it to the door, Uncle Vernon had already met Mr. Arthur Weasley. Harry himself had never seen the man, but - knowing Ron and three of his brothers, and also knowing that no other wizard, indeed no other human _being_ would wear such a garish suit, the visitor's identity was rather self-evident.

Uncle Vernon was shouting at him.

"-violent, loud colors, might as well hang a sign around your neck! Why I even allow you people-"

"I say, old fellow, keep your voice down, would you?"

"-is beyond me, the whole lot of you are a bunch of-"

"I rather think you're attracting the neighbors' attention with all this shouting."

"-not letting you near my family, you hear me? Not even-"

"Really, the suit's not _that_ bad, is it? Ronald assured me-"

"-or try your unnatural acts on MY property, I'll call the police!"

Harry sighed, stepping between them. "Goodbye, Uncle Vernon. I'll see you next year."

Uncle Vernon didn't even notice Harry leaving. Harry suspected the man had made an art of Ignoring Harry, so he'd put a 'goodbye for one year' letter on the door to Dudley's spare room. He'd also said goodbye to Aunt Petunia in person, on the grounds that she wasn't _quite_ as irrational as her husband.

* * *

"It's invisible _and_ it flies?"

Ron nodded. "Dad's been working on this thing for _years_."

"I've just about got the mechanical parts figured out," added Mr. Weasley, "but I can't get my mind around Muggle traffic laws. So I put an invisibility booster in, added a flight enchantment, and - here we are!"

Harry was impressed.

"Oh, but don't tell Molly about the flying, will you?"

* * *

"FRED!"

Harry groaned, pulling his borrowed comforter over his head. Percy's perpetual predicament regarding his particularly prankish brothers was almost as reliable as an alarm clock - if the alarm clock kept ringing an hour earlier every week - and Harry again cursed the rules restricting underage magic-use.

A few hours later, at sunrise, Harry stumbled downstairs to join the Weasleys for another breakfast. He'd been enjoying his time in the Burrow - _odd name for a house_ - despite the constant interruptions to his sleep. Compared to his time in Privet Drive, even that was heavenly.

Mrs. Weasley, who kept insisting that Harry call her 'mum' while he insisted that word had a regrettable precedent when used by Harry Potter, had set the usual five-course breakfast. Bacon, eggs, sausage, toast, two kinds of butter, plenty of milk, and some kind of crunchy grain thing that Percy praised up as 'very nutritious' but wouldn't put a name to. Percy also complained when Harry ended his sentences with prepositions, even though Harry knew the meaning was still quite obvious.

Mr. Weasley was reading the morning edition of the Daily Prophet.

MINISTRY OFFICIALS OBVIATE AZKABAN, APPOINT OBLIVIATOR

Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge, age 64, today swore in  
celebrated adventurer and novelist Gilderoy Lockhart, age  
27, to the newly-created post of High Obliviator. "It's not as  
glamorous as winning the Witch Weekly Best Smile award  
four times in succession- can I say that? Yes. Good. - But it's  
certainly an honor, a very high honor, and I'm definitely  
more than qualified for the job," Lockhart says.  
"We may avail ourselves of this new resource sooner than  
we had expected," Ministry official Walden MacNair, age 42,  
advised, possibly referring to the recent (continued on S-6)

"Who's Lockhart?" murmured Harry. He'd had to squint to read the bottom half of the front page upside-down while Mr. Weasley was still holding it, but it wasn't as though he'd never read upside-down newsprint from across a kitchen table before.

Mr. Weasley took a sip of coffee. "Some smarmy crowd-pleaser, gallivanting off who-knows-where all the time to fight deadly monsters or some such nonsense. Molly has all his books, though I can't think for the life of me what the appeal is."

There was a pause.

"Er, where the _apple_ is, I thought I brought one to the table, to help with my digestion," backpedaled Mr. Weasley.

"It's by your elbow, dear."

"Thank you, Molly," wheezed Mr. Weasley. He put down the paper, the expression of utter fearful relief on his face at odds with the interrogating glint in his eyes. "Now what's all this about Lockhart?"

Harry put down his fifth slice of bacon. "The paper says he's the new High Obliviator."

"Eh?" Mr. Weasley blinked a few times, then looked at the back of his newspaper. "Oh. So it does. Carry on then."

* * *

"Who d'you reckon they'll have for Defense professor this year?"

"I don't know, Ron, Itzahk Perlman?"

Ron scrunched up his face as though trying to place the name. "Who?"

"Some musician. I doubt he's a wizard. Look, I don't have any idea who they _could_ have teaching Defense this year, Ron. They might even bring Quirrell back for all I know."

"Eugh, no thanks."

Harry nodded. "Although he was getting good, towards the end."

"Yeah, those illusions were all right," agreed Ron.

"You don't think he'd let Snape teach Defense, do you?"

Ron mulled it over for a few minutes. "Probably not. We'd live, but the school wouldn't stand for it."

Harry agreed.

"Thanks for letting me visit, Ron," Harry said, earnestly, for about the hundredth time. "I feel like I've finally come home."

"Shut up," Ron replied for the fiftieth.

* * *

Harry awoke, hours later, to the sound of somebody delivering mail to his pillow. Ron had slipped out for extra practice with Charlie's old broom, and the interloper was clearly too small to be Fred or George - unless they'd managed to Shrink themselves, but Harry doubted they'd go to such lengths just to prank him in their own house. His house, maybe, but not their own.

"Ginny?"

Whoever-it-was _yelped_, fell over backwards, and made a tremendous clattering against Ron's secret shrine to the Chudley Cannons. It was secret only because he refused to talk about it; otherwise the shrine was the dominating feature of Ron's room.

_Can't be Ginny, she knows better than to touch the Shrine of Donanatakabodit. And it's her birthday tomorrow. And I didn't get her anything. This won't end well_. Harry turned his attention back to the intruder at hand. "Mysteriously short George?"

Another _yelp_, more terrible crashing noises.

Harry wracked his brain for anyone else that would sneak into his (Ron's) room at half-past three, was less than four feet tall, and didn't fear Mr. Crimson. "Er, Griphook of Gringotts having a summer holiday as a catburglar in a home with a surprising lack of cats?"

Total silence.

_Odd, I expected a third yelp,_ thought Harry. "Who's there?"

A tiny, gray, misshapen creature - large-headed, dewy-eyed, frail of limb, and aside from its size almost but not quite entirely unlike Griphook the Gringotts Goblin - stepped forth.

_It's wearing a pillowcase._ "You're wearing a pillowcase. Why are you wearing a pillowcase?"

The whatever-it-was hung its head in a curious mix of respect and shame. "It wears a pillowcase because the potato sack was deemed too unsightly for its Master's house."

It took Harry a few minutes to start his brain up after hearing that. "Er, does it have a name?" _Don't ask about lotion don't ask about lotion don't ask about lotion-_

"It is called Dobby, sir," the miserable creature admitted. "Dobby is a House-Elf, sent to bring the Great Harry Potter mail, sir."

It took Harry a few minutes to stop thinking everything at once after hearing that. "Er," he agreed. "What?"

"You are the great Harry Potter, sir," the Elf told him. "Dobby was told to bring you this, and make sure you read it, and then return, sir."

"An elf, you're an Elf," Harry tried to remember all the things he'd thought of asking Elves if he ever saw one. Then he tried to sort out which ones only applied to the _make-believe_ elves from _storybooks_ and not the _real Elves sitting in front of oh for the love of bacon this is ridiculous._

"Yes, sir, Dobby is a House-Elf," replied Dobby. Harry noticed that Dobby had somehow put Ron's Shhhhrine back perfectly, and was winding a fresh bandage around its bruised left arm.

"Er," stammered Harry, quite certain he was about to mess up his first human-elven liaison pursuant to the logical, peaceful effort of requisitioning, er, a squad - he knew it wasn't the best acronym, but H.E.L.P.E.R.S. was still much better than Hermione's first idea - "_A Elbereth, Gilthoniel?_"

Dobby stared at him for a few seconds. "_...Pedil Edhellen?_"

_Wait, what? That was... I think I was making a joke. Why does Dobby the House-Elf speak Tolkien Elvish? What kind of Tolkien Elvish does he speak? WHAT IS HAPPENING?_

"...What?" managed Harry.

Dobby sighed. "_Nai, ilanwa,_" he muttered softly. "Dobby doesn't know. Is the Great Harry Potter reading his letter?"

Harry paused. He'd just received magical mystery mail from a strange Elvish creature that at the least knew the works of Tolkien, and at the most was some kind of wish-granting transdimensional apocalypse trapped in a frail fleshling until some innocuous condition was met. _Not likely, though_.

"...Is the Great Harry Potter asleep?"

"Sorry," Harry replied quickly. "I've never met a House-Elf before, even though I'm sort of part of the Hogwarts chapter - the only chapter - of the Human Elven Logical Peace Effort Reclamation Squad. Do you know if the Castle-Elves are the guardians of students' lives?"

Dobby nodded. "It is the duty of a House-Elf, or a Castle-Elf, to defend the lives of its Masters."

_Huh. Maybe that's why all the professors are so cavalier about endangering students' lives._ "Er, who sent the letter?"

Dobby gave Harry a pained look. "Dobby cannot tell even the Great Harry Potter that, Dobby is not supposed to tell about his Masters."

"I guess the letter's probably signed, then," Harry mused. Dobby's pained expression suddenly graduated to a tortured expression. "Why do you keep calling me the 'Great' Harry Potter? Is there another Harry Potter that isn't famous for something he doesn't remember doing?"

"Dobby doesn't think so," Dobby answered, glancing nervously around the room. "Dobby calls the Great Harry Potter the Great Harry Potter because the Great Harry-"

"Right, stop calling me the Great anything, it's getting redundant."

Dobby twitched a bit. "Dobby will stop calling the Noble Harry Potter the Great Harry Potter, as the Noble Harry Potter wishes, for the Noble Harry Potter is highly honored-"

"No honorifics, okay?" Harry gave the trembling House-Elf his best puppy-dog face, which wasn't particularly effective on humans but by some lucky coincidence was more than enough to convince Dobby.

"Dobby will try, Harry Potter," Dobby told him, meeting his eyes in total seriousness.

"Er, thanks."

"Harry Potter must read Harry Potter's letter," Dobby reminded him. "Until he does, Dobby cannot leave Harry Potter's side."

"Er, awkward," noted Harry, opening the letter.

_Harry, _

_Sending this letter by Dobby instead of by Owl to avoid suspicion. Father acting odd and smug this month, probably anything you read in the paper is his fault. Most likely Dementors at Hogwarts. Be sure to warn Muddy so she doesn't make a fool of herself, as such would be embarrassing to you and by extension to me.  
Also don't let Dobby punish himself while he's at your place, scars are hard to explain without looking like a spoiled psychopath, which is also damaging to my ambitions and makes Mother cry.  
Greg doing fine, has started studying records of Wizengamot trials, likely to pester prefect Percy persistently this year at Hogwarts. Vincent fully recovered, but was warned not to try anything that stupid (read 'awesome') again or dire consequences. _

_P.S. tell the Weasel I'll prove he's the worst Seeker in a century this year. _

_This message will be eaten by my House-Elf in five seconds. _

"Wait, does making you eat his letter count as punishing yourself?" asked Harry.

Dobby snatched the letter from his hands and devoured it. "Dobby likes paper. Very chewy."

Harry twitched a bit. "Right, well, that's fine then. Don't punish yourself for anything, the mysterious unidentified Draco was very insistent on that."

Dobby stopped with his hand on a genuine replica Chudley Cannons Beater Bat. "Dobby wasn't going to leave scars," he insisted.

Harry glared at him.

"Dobby will honor the wishes of Harry Potter," Dobby said, relenting. "But Harry Potter must promise Dobby one thing in return."

"Oh?"

"Harry Potter must promise that Harry Potter will not go to Hogwarts this year."


	22. Chapter 2: The Deal

Harry Potter and the Garden of Intrigue

Book Two

Being a continued exploration of the differences in Mr. Potter's life pursuant to the events described in the preceding book.

Harry Potter, all related characters, and the original Harry Potter narrative are properties of J. K. Rowling.

Chapter 2

The Deal

"Er..." Harry thought quickly. "Can I make a different promise?"

"Dobby would prefer that Harry Potter promise not to go to Hogwarts this year."

"Can Dobby tell Harry Pott- er, me, why?"

Dobby tipped his proportionally massive head to one side. "Dobby can."

Harry waited.

"Will you tell me why?"

The Elf's head tipped the other way. "Dobby will if Harry Potter promises."

Harry's eye twitched. "I don't like promising things without knowing why," he grated, with an uncanny resemblance to his uncle.

"Dobby does not want Harry Potter to be in danger," explained Dobby. "If Harry Potter goes to Hogwarts, Harry Potter will be in danger."

"Wait," Harry objected, "I thought the Castle-Elves protect the students? Unless we get another Quirrelmort, Hogwarts should be perfectly safe, right?"

Dobby shivered. "Dobby doesn't like to think about that one. Dobby knows..." his hand started creeping towards Ron's replica Beater Bat again, intent on punishing himself.

"Stop it," ordered Harry. Dobby stopped. "What can you tell me?"

Dobby hesitated. "Dobby knows that there will be danger to Harry Potter at Hogwarts. Dobby knows that the Castle-Elves cannot stop the danger. Dobby knows seven recipes for paralysis poison and three for lemon custard. Dobby knows the most efficient way to remove a human kneecap without causing pain. Dobby knows the least efficient way to remove a human kneecap without causing pain. Dobby knows that Dobby is a strange Elf. Dobby knows the cube root of twenty-seven-"

"...three," Harry confirmed.

Dobby nodded. "Dobby knows that Harry Potter is not the worst at mathematics, now, too. Dobby knows that paper gives other people indigestion. Dobby knows the Eldar Tongue. Dobby knows why a duck. Dobby knows the stone on whom no idle spark was struck. Dobby knows thirteen shades in thirteen towers will never toll the knell of the lucky number. Dobby knows that Harry Potter is confused."

Harry nodded. "What can you tell me that's relevant to Hogwarts this year?"

Dobby pondered. "Dobby can tell you to bring extra chocolate, and not listen to pipes."

"But Hogwarts is in _Scotland_, that's the best place to hear pipes!"

Dobby smiled wryly. "Dobby has told Harry Potter what Dobby can tell Harry Potter. Will Harry Potter promise that Harry Potter will not go to Hogwarts this year?"

Harry had forgotten about Dobby's bargain. "Er, will everybody else be in danger too?"

Dobby grimaced. "Dobby thinks Harry Potter will be in the most danger of all," he evaded, "but Dobby admits there is always some danger at Hogwarts."

"Then I can't promise to stay away. My friends will be there, and as a Gryffindor I've got to stick my neck out for them."

"_Aica umbar, rau Cennan_," muttered Dobby. "Dobby asks Harry Potter not to put Harry Potter in danger when others are safe."

Harry smiled. "That I can promise," he promised.

"Then unless _all_ of Hogwarts is in danger, Harry Potter will not put himself in danger," Dobby grinned. "And Dobby will be watching." The scrawny pillowcase-wearing Elf snapped his fingers, vanishing with a Cheshire grin.

"Wait, that's not-" Harry tried to object, speaking to the empty air. "_Aauugh_."

"-GEORGE!" shouted Percy from the room below.

* * *

Harry spent the next few weeks oscillating between brillig absohappiness and terrifying apprehension. When the Weasleys brought him along to Diagon Alley, he made sure to buy several armloads of chocolates; Mr. Weasley, finding this a brilliant idea, got a small bar of Rotfiller's Emergency Chocolate for each of his sons, and three for his daughter.

"You spoil her, you know," chided Mrs. Weasley, quietly.

Arthur smiled. "Same as you, love."

* * *

"Hey, look, it's the best Slytherin in Hogwarts!"

"Greg?"

"Vince?"

"Zabini?"

"Greg's easily-ignored younger brother?"

Harry sighed. "Draco," he said, simultaneously greeting and clarifying.

"Harry," noted Draco, revealing none of his extremely clever plans to get ice cream on the way home. "I must say, you've put yourself in an excellent position to shine by comparison."

Fortunately the adult Weasleys were too busy having civil warfare with Draco's father to hear Draco's pompous put-down. Ron, on the other hand, had once again transformed from a mild-mannered student and Quidditch star into his mighty alter ego, the infuriated Mr. Crimson.

"You take that back, Malfoy, or-"

"Hear that, Fred?"

"Sure enough, little Draco thinks we've got perfect social camouflage."

"-and then bury the ashes!" Ron finished, ignoring his brothers' aside.

Harry carefully pushed Ron over to the books about Quidditch. "So, Draco, I take it your summer is going well?"

"I suppose so, although I'm a bit disappointed at the new crop of Slytherins we have this year."

"Er," agreed Harry. "Draco, there aren't any new Slytherins. They haven't been Sorted yet."

"Exactly!" cried Draco. "If they were any good, they'd have found a way around that by now. Term starts in less than a week, you know."

Harry decided to change the subject. "So, Draco, why a duck?"

Draco eyed him suspiciously. "...a telephone pole," he replied, slowly. "Broomsticks don't have doors."

After a moment of stunned silence, Harry admitted "that makes even less sense than before."

"Good," replied Draco. "You're too Gryffindor for it anyways."

* * *

It took a few tries to get Ron away from the Quidditch books, but considering the near fracas between Lucious Malfoy and Arthur Weasley, it was preferable to the eruption that would otherwise have resulted.

The remainder of their trip through Diagon Alley was almost without incident, although Ginny kept walking just next to Harry, which was weird and confusing. He'd hardly even seen her at the Burrow - odd, since she lived there - and yet here she was, right _here_, being conspicuously inconspicuous.

Harry elected to wait outside while Ginny was fitted for her new wand.

"Why's that, then? Afraid of old Ollivanders?"

"Yes," Harry gulped, remembering the incredible creepiness. "He's really odd, in a way that differs from the oddness to which I have become accustomed."

Fred thought about that for a while.

"Huh," concluded George.

* * *

"King's Cross Station," called Mr. Weasley, opening the back door of his car. "Trains, trains, more trains, a few locomotives, all students bound for Hogwarts kindly disembark!"

Ginny giggled.

"Right this way, then," prompted her father, while everybody else emptied the trunk of its impossible cargo. How they'd managed to fit six full-sized trunks, owl cage, bags, lunches, bagged lunches, piles of chocolate, and small automated short-range self-carrying stationary (Flourish and Blotts' newest product, how could Harry refuse such novelty?) into the trunk of such a small car - well, alright, _magic_, but that didn't really answer the question.

"-worried about them, the Ministry's never gone so far before,"

Harry paused a moment, trying to place the voice.

"-blame them, with the scare they've had? Quirrel last year, and now-"

_Arthur and Molly Weasley, Right_, thought Harry. _But why are they whispering to each other? Doesn't sound like sweet nothings._ He crept closer, hiding behind his own trunk.

"-completely agree," agreed Arthur. "And it's pure good fortune that Harry's developed such a sweet tooth. But still, they don't have to let-"

"So! Harry," interrupted Ron, probably not deliberately interrupting Harry's espionage. "You think there's going to be more insane adventures this year?"

Harry nodded. "Think about it. Quirrell didn't go crazy over nothing - he was working for a force that we both know quite well but, because we're in public, won't actually identify."

"Right, that," agreed Ron, rolling his eyes. "And?"

"So," explained Harry, "that conveniently not-being-identified power behind recent events is likely to arrange more events to pursue its ill-defined goals that we are already aware of. The good news is-"

"-since we know its goals, we can predict its moves!" crowed Ron. "Perfect, I'll see if Hermione can Peeves-Proof my conspiracy board this year."

Harry sighed. He _was_ looking forward to seeing his friends again, and stopping evil plans before they got going would leave him more time to catch Fredand George and have them show him the castle's spleen, or whatever architectural organ they had actually found last year. "Lead on, Mr. Crimson."

* * *

They met Hermione and Neville just past the barrier, under the wrought-iron Platform sign. The pair of them had been enjoying scones and tea while they waited.

"Scone?" offered Neville.

"Lovely. What kind of tea is it?" Harry inquired.

"Earl Grey," Hermione told him. "I'd prefer darjeeling, but you can't always have what you want."

"Partial to Jasmine, myself," Neville offered.

Ron twitched. "Nice to see you too. Can we stop talking about _tea_?"

Hermione looked a bit affronted. "Well, Ron, if you hate tea that much I suppose we could keep mum about it."

"I suppose," sighed Neville. He sipped his tea.

"_Thank_ you," growled Ron. "Honestly, people get all worked up over a few dry leaves and some hot water, I don't know."

Harry sipped the cup he'd been offered. "I see what you mean," he told Neville. "Although I do enjoy this blend."

"_Aaaaaaaargh!_"

"Ron, please, we're just having a bit of fun with you," Harry said, trying to calm his friend.

"Although I _do_ prefer Jasmine tea," Neville admitted. "But only because Gran tried to make me a tea snob over the summer."

"Well stop it," growled Ron. "Bloody _hate_ tea."

Harry blinked. "Er, why?"

"Remedial potions," replied Ron. "Snape got me up to three-layer mindreading speed chess, and he always has this huge pot of lukewarm _tea_, it's the only thing to drink and I'm _sick_ of it."

"Poor soul," Neville breathed. He pulled a thermos from his pocket, which had apparently been blessed with the same enhancements as Mr. Weasley's car. "Here, have some cocoa."

Ron accepted the thermos with tears in his eyes. "Thanks, Neville," he choked. "You're really the best of us."

Hermione sniffed. "You don't need to go on like that, Ron. It's not as though we just fought a swarm of Dark creatures or something, it's just _tea_."

"Ah, scones," interjected Harry, heading off a resurgence of any tea-related conversation. "So, Hermione, how goes the spell research?"

Hermione, beaming, divulged her latest discoveries in advanced field mechanics and arcano-language interweaves, to the accompaniment of Ron's sighs and Neville's longsuffering stoicism.

_By the imaginary whiskers of Merlin, I'm glad I know these crazy people._


	23. Chapter 3: In Which Much is Made Clear

Book Two

Being a continued exploration of the differences in Mr. Potter's life pursuant to the events described in the preceding book.

Harry Potter, all related characters, and the original Harry Potter narrative are properties of J. K. Rowling.

Chapter 3

In Which Much is Made Clear

The train ride was surprisingly eventful. Neville had scarcely begun his tale of personal awesomenification, skipping the bits with tea for Ron's sake, when a peculiar young witch - accompanied by Ginny - had petitioned them with extremely formal terms for permission to hide in their compartment until the Fleece-Rumpled Herkimers had moved on. Harry, not knowing what a Herkimer was or how it could become Fleece-Rumpled, agreed.

Not ten seconds later, the windows had frosted over, and a black-cloaked figure - Harry assumed it was a Death Eater - had opened the compartment door and _stared_ at him. It was extremely disturbing. Harry suspected the thing didn't even have eyes.

When he came to, Draco was taunting him for fainting.

"I _fainted_? Toss me off the train and call it a day," lamented Harry with affected misery. "If my reputation is ruined I'll never succeed at anything!"

Ron chuckled, as did the surprisingly well-hidden Ginny and friend.

"Yeah, laugh it up, Weasley," spat Draco, weakly.

"Sorry, Draco," Harry acceded. "But really, I _fainted?_"

"Yes, Harry, you _fainted_," Hermione confirmed, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "And then Neville stared the Dementor down until a professor could drive it off to the car they're keeping them in. Why did they even let them on the train?"

Harry blinked. "Wait, that wasn't a Death Eater?"

"Close enough," Ron supplied. "They both take away all the happiness near them, and they're both the Darkest of Dark Creatures. Right, _Malfoy_?"

"Shut up," Draco retorted. "Those charges were dropped and you know it."

"I feel like I'm missing something important here," Harry interjected, "but I'm more interested in knowing how Neville stared down a Super Dark Creature of whatever kind."

"Er, well," explained Neville.

"Seriously, Neville, that's a good question," Ron agreed, forgetting his perpetual feud with the last scion of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Malfoy for a few precious seconds.

"Yes, did you bathe in the light of a Jundle Flower last Tuesday?"

Harry turned to the silver-haired eleven-year-old that Ginny had brought in. "Wait, sorry, I'm terrible with names. Tsukiyomi?"

"Luna," corrected Luna, "but that's very flattering."

"Right, Reflected Light of the Celestial Fires. What kind of flower?"

"Doesn't matter," interrupted Neville. "I didn't."

Reflected Light of the Celestial Fires raised an eyebrow. Then she lowered it, turned to Harry, and said "May I call you Thunder Upon the Souls of Darkness?"

"Luna it is," capitulated Harry.

* * *

Harry couldn't stand it. "It's singing. _Again_."

"I thought we went over this last year, Harry," Ron complained. "It's magic, it sings, ignore it if it bothers you that much."

Harry's foot was tapping in time with the hat's song. He reached for a nearby teapot, poured himself a cup, and took a sip. "Mm, Jasmine. What was that, Ron?"

Ron glared at him.

"So does the song _mean _anything? I don't want it stuck in my head if it doesn't mean anything."

Ron ignored him.

"Neville?"

Neville shrugged. "It's pretty much just telling us what the Houses stand for. Gryffindor for stupid heroics and courage, Ravenclaw for smug cleverness and thinking things through, Hufflepuff for dogged determination and loyalty, Slytherin for unscrupulous plotting and absolute focus on goals."

Harry thought about that for a moment. "When you put it that way, Hufflepuff sounds best," he noted. "And even Slytherin gets some good points."

"That's why," Neville agreed. "If you asked a wizard at the Leaky Cauldron, though, they'd probably just say 'oh, well, love Gryffindor, Ravenclaw's all nonsense half the time, and Slytherin is pretty much the Death Eater Children's Coalition.'" He sighed. "Nobody cares about Hufflepuff, I just don't get it."

Harry thought about that while the Sorting commenced, clapping absentmindedly when Colin Creevey was sorted into Gryffindor. "Seems like Hufflepuff is the people who really get things done, right? Hard working, honest folks."

Neville nodded. "Half my family's been Hufflepuff, the other half Gryffindor. I think the Hat flips us around to fill space, sometimes." He smiled. "Although in my case, it was probably as a kick in the pants, to get me started out right."

"I'd say that worked pretty well," Harry told him. "Say, you were under the Hat almost as long as I was -"

"Longer," Neville corrected."

"-longer than I was, right. I got distracted asking it about the needle from whence it was sewn, I told you that last year..." Harry clapped again as Luna Lovegood joined the Ravenclaw table - he was a little afraid of her, to be honest, but she seemed more _strange_ than _dark_. "But what did it say to you?"

Neville took a long draught of Jasmine tea before answering. "The Hat... it's a very strange place, Harry. It borrows your mind while you wear it. Talking to the Hat... it's like talking to a reflection of yourself, but the reflection isn't in a mirror, it's in the face of a statue of the Founders."

Harry forgot to clap.

"When I got up there," Neville continued, "I was... I didn't really know who I was, who I wanted to be, how I'd even gotten to Hogwarts in the first place."

"Bouncing, right?" asked Harry. Ron was ignoring them, giving a big grin of encouragement to his sister in the quickly shrinking line of un-Sorted first-years.

"It didn't seem that great at the time," Neville replied. "And since I didn't know where I wanted to go, or who I wanted to be, the reflection of me that was the Hat while I wore it... It didn't know where to put me, either. So we talked. It asked me about my past, my fears, my hopes... finally, I decided to be brave. To face the future head-on, no matter the cost."

There was a moment of silence as Gordon Underhill was Sorted.

"That's amazing," Harry shouted over the applause, while Underhill made his way to Hufflepuff. "Can it see the future?"

"Probably, how else would it get the right number of students in each House? I think it tries to push us to the Houses that need us," Neville surmised, "but it has to send us to a House we need, too."

"Makes sense to me," agreed Harry. "Look, Ginny's getting sorted." Harry looked around the Gryffindor table for a free spot, and saw one between Ron and Percy. "Wait, Percy's probably going to tell her 'well done' for getting into Gryffindor," he whispered to Ron.

"He'd better, he's been saving that seat for her since we got here," Ron confirmed. "Honestly, as if it was even a question, _every_ Weasley goes to -"

"RAVENCLAW!" bellowed the Sorting hat.

* * *

"This isn't happening, tell me it isn't happening."

"It's not happening," obliged Harry.

"Well don't _lie_ to me about it!" shouted Ron, actual tears in his eyes. Colin Creevey, who had brought an old-style camera with him, had immortalized the Weasley reaction to their sister's sudden Sorting secession on film.

Harry was definitely looking forward to seeing that photograph. He'd been too busy picking his jaw off the table after Ginny had made Weasley history to actually look at his favorite family, but Neville and Hermione assured him it had been a once-in-a-lifetime event. The Twins had actually _stopped moving_. for _twenty-three seconds_.

Percy was already writing home about it.

"Welcome to another wonderful year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!" Dumbledore intoned. "We are very glad to welcome back all of our returning students, and of course all of the newly Sorted young talents have many interesting things to look forward to. But before we begin the year, I have a few announcements!"

Harry had been looking forward to this. He stopped worrying about the possible trauma that the entire Weasley family had just been subjected to and focused on the insane wizard in charge of an entire school, where young minds were taught in their formative years.

_Gosh, no wonder Draco complains about Dumbledore's authority_.

"First," Dumbledore continued, "we have a new teacher for this year's Defense Against the Dark Arts. I would like you all to give a warm welcome to Professor Remus Lupin!"

Scattered applause. Harry assumed nobody knew the man, who on closer observance was really very shabby-looking.

"Second, as always, the Forbidden Forest is _forbidden_. It's right there in the name, but we announce it every year so nobody gets confused." As Dumbledore swept his gaze over the worst offenders, Lupin twitched his wand, and a large pink arrow made of sparkles momentarily materialized over Fred and George. As was their custom, they bowed to the attention, to a mix of applause and booing.

"Third, due to the recent escape of notorious criminal Sirius Black, I regret to inform you that there will unfortunately be Dementors posted at key locations around the school, by Ministry order," Dumbledore informed them. "They are not permitted inside the castle, however, and should you see one of those black-cloaked abominations so much as flutter in the doorway, I advise you contact the nearest Prefect, Professor, or irate Headmaster to kick their collective shrouds off the grounds."

Uncomfortable silence, followed by cheering and riotous applause as the Gryffindors figured out Dumbledore's very obvious subtext.

"And finally, _do _try the custard," concluded Dumbledore.

* * *

Harry's first week of classes was much the same as the previous year, although he had less of a hassle threading his way through the castle now that he knew most of the paths he needed.

Flitwick, Sprout, Hooch and Mcgonnagal refreshed their memories on the proper safety procedures for active Magic, Broomstick-riding, and Herbology, while Sinistra simply gave a review of the basics and set them up with a high-magnification Charm to study more distant stars in vibrant detail - a new feature for her class, inspired by long talks with Hermione the preceding year. Binns was, as usual, scarcely worth mentioning. Harry suspected the old ghost was trying to teach them the same material as the previous year, but Hermione assured him there were crucial differences between the Third Goblin War and the Third Wizard-Goblin War. The involvement of wizards, for one.

Snape was still Snape; a bitter, cynical, unpleasant man with too many regrets and too many points for Slytherin. Harry didn't mind that so much - he half expected some kind of impossible threat to jump up at the last minute, put the entire school in danger, and force him to save everyone at great personal risk, earning far too many points and putting Gryffindor at the top of the charts. Again.

Harry felt a twinge from his scar, which hadn't happened since Christmas, and shored up his out-of-practice Occlumency shields. This earned him a brief smirk from Snape and a five-point penalty for not having started his Perplexing Potion yet.

"Right, Professor," Harry replied, nodding. He smiled faintly and started grinding up hen's teeth, knowing that behind all the hateful vituperative sharpness - _which is entirely deliberate and a large part of Snape's personality_ - Snape also had a teeny-tiny core of unbreakable dedication to Harry's not-being-dead.

Remus Lupin's teaching style was entirely unexpected.

* * *

"-which is why you should never, _ever_ taunt them," concluded Lupin, who had spent half of his opening lecture taunting the gnarled creature trapped on his desk. "Questions!"

Hermione was, for the first time since Quirrell had started using wandless illusions as visual aids, not the only one with a question.

"Yes, you on the left side, Mr. Goyle is it?"

"Forgive my impertinence," Gregory began, "but have not you yourself been taunting the gaoled Grindylow sporadically since initiating this lighthearted lecture?"

Lupin grinned at him. "Have I? How terribly reckless of me! If I were to approach this agitated creature," Lupin waved his hand over the Grindylow's tank, "it would probably lash out at me, wrapping its spindly little arms around my own," it did, "and trying to pull me into the tank with it. Now, who can tell me how to get myself out of this mess before it pulls my head under and I start to drown?"

Considerably fewer hands were ready to save their professor's life so soon after meeting him.

"There in the front row, not you, the brown-haired girl. Granger."

"Er, its limbs are strong but brittle," Hermione began, a bit nervous with Lupin blithely getting pulled into a watery grave right before her eyes, "you could use a cutting hex or a blast of heat, or you could Transmute it into a fish or a badger or a pollywog," Lupin grinned again, readying his wand, "or you could use _scaldera_ to cut and cauterize your own arm, then retrieve it later for medical attention-"

"I liked the second option better," Lupin told her, Transmuting the Grindylow into a magenta sea urchin, which left a few punctures in his hand as he dropped it in its tank. "But that's very creative."

Hermione grimaced. "Or just put it to sleep with a _dormire_ hex," she finished, belatedly. "Sorry."

Lupin waved off her concern. "We live and we learn, Miss Granger. We live and we learn. Now! Who can tell me their favorite charm, hex or Transmutation to try for escaping a Grindylow? We'll start practicing next Tuesday."

* * *

Snape had wasted no time reinstating his special lessons with Harry, Neville, Ron and Hermione. Harry suspected that Draco was getting some of Snape's personal time as well, but since Draco didn't know that Harry and his Gryffindor friends were getting secret training from Snape, he hadn't been invited to this Thursday meeting.

"This year," Snape began, still towering over all of them, "we will continue to train your mental defenses. You have each shown potential for further growth. Longbottom, your capacity for fear and courage are a true credit to your House. Weasley, your intuitive grasp of tactics, though frustrating to my own students on the Quidditch field, has proven well worth the effort to develop. Granger, your uninhibited learning and clear memory have already put you well beyond your years in witchcraft of all normal kinds."

The three he had named swelled with pride, but Hermione raised her hand. "Professor, what about Harry?"

_Yeah,_ thought Harry, _What about Harry? Do I get to learn emotion-casting, or snake-speaking? Or whatever that third thing was that you never told me?_

Snape scowled. "Mr. Potter has a minor affinity for emotion-driven spells," he confirmed, "which may be of some use against our... _guests_ outside the walls. Unfortunately for your heroic ambitions, the Dementors are entirely loyal to the Ministry, which has provided them with all the wandless prisoners they could desire and no brave Wizards trying to hound them from their meals."

Harry shivered.

"They have been sent here as our _protectors_. We should therefore have no reason to defend ourselves from them," Snape clarified. "However, as circumstances tend to put Mr. Potter and his associates directly in the path of whatever dangers happen to be nearby," Snape's expression for this statement was one of utter disgust, "I will arrange for you all to learn the Patronus charm from our new Defense teacher. I trust a group lesson on Tuesday evenings will not disturb your... social calendars?"

Hermione giggled, then shook her head.


	24. Chapter 4: Lessons

Book Two

Being a continued exploration of the differences in Mr. Potter's life pursuant to the events described in the preceding book.

Harry Potter, all related characters, and the original Harry Potter narrative are properties of J. K. Rowling.

Chapter 4

Lessons

Lupin's lessons on beating Dementors were mostly theoretical, to begin with. He'd lined them up, had them focus on happy memories - especially memories with loved ones and friends, that sort of joy was far more effective at getting a Patronus out than any mere feelings of amusement or laughter - and try to produce something visible.

Hermione was visibly upset that Ron's efforts paid off first. In fact, at the end of the first lesson, she was the only one of them that _hadn't_ managed to get the little wisps of silver that were the first signs of casting the spell correctly.

"Y'know, Hermione," Ron said, "I know you always learn the spells fastest, and you're on - what, fifth year standards now?"

"Except in Transmutations," Hermione confirmed. "Those I'm still in third year."

"Right, because Transmutations are the tough stuff." Ron breathed deeply, steeling his emotions as they left Lupin's classroom. "But maybe it's hard for you this time _because_ you weren't the first. You know? You're getting upset that somebody _else_ got it before _you_ did, and it's clouding your focus."

Hermione _grumphed_, which made Harry chuckle, as that was Ron's preferred mode of communication. She glared at him, then pondered for a few minutes. "Ron?"

Ron carefully kept himself just out of arm's reach. "Yeh?"

"You're..." Ron tensed himself to jump for cover at the first sign of wand-work. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"DUCK AND - whuh?"

* * *

Hermione's mood improved dramatically over the next week, as she had already mastered the standard forms of every new spell and kept asking about variations and subtleties that her books didn't mention. Harry took copious notes, learning more about the flexibility of the simple spells they were learning than he'd ever thought possible.

Draco caught up to Harry on Thursday, just before lunch.

"Heard your posse's getting private lessons from this year's sacrificial teacher."

"Yeah, he seems to think it's important to know how to defend ourselves from the powerful Dark creatures that cover the grounds and make me faint," Harry snarked.

Vincent sniggered.

"Hi, Vincent," Harry greeted him. "Hullo, Greg."

"A pleasure as always, Thunder upon the Souls of Darkness," replied Gregory.

Vincent sniggered again.

"Er," Harry responded, his left eyebrow twitching a bit, "so you've met Luna, then?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "She introduced herself as 'Reflected Light of the Celestial Fires' and spouted off some nonsense about swack-iron dragons and bubbleflies."

Harry blinked, then chuckled. "She liked it?"

"I should have known," sighed Movie Villain Name Malfoy. "So what exactly is Lupin the Loser teaching you?"

"Stick to the schemes," Harry told him. "Nicknames are my demesne."

Draco waited.

"He's teaching us something called the Patronus charm," Harry continued. "It's based on joy, apparently, and so far all I can manage is this silvery mist - look," he pulled his wand out, pointing it at the ceiling. "_Expecto Patronum_." A thin silvery mist, exactly as advertised, wafted from the tip of his wand and settled in his hair. "Bleagh."

Vincent sniggered a third time. "Not bad, Harry," he said.

Harry, feeling a bit embarrassed, replied "Hey, Vincent, why don't you loom these days?"

Vincent grimaced. "I strained my loomer when I got the Troll last year," he admitted. "Dad has me going through therapy."

"Eesh," noted Harry. "Good luck."

Draco had been pondering Harry's pathetic Patronus. "I think I'll ask Loopy Lupin to increase his class size," he decided. "Greg, I'll need your help on the wording. And Harry?"

"Hang on," Harry told him, trying to brush the silvery mist from his hair. He gave up after a few seconds, expecting it to come out in the wash. "Yes?"

"Nickname?"

"Oh, right, Loopy works for Lupin. It's alliterative, descriptive, and uniquely characteristic of him, while at the same time being something he probably wouldn't see as an insult."

Draco stared at him, ignoring the increasingly silvered hair. "You do all that for every nickname?"

"Nah, they just come out that way."

Draco gave him a level look of inscrutable meaning. "Right," he muttered. "Bloody Gryffindor."

* * *

Harry's Thursday with Snape turned out to be focused mostly on his Parseltongue abilities. Snape conjured a large serpent, told Harry to give it a nonviolent command, and proceeded to read Harry's mind while making his serpent resist Harry's control.

"_Give me a hug_," ordered Harry, his mental shields as strong as they had ever been.

"Asking a constrictor for a hug is not within the range of nonviolence, Mr. Potter."

_Swear word_, thought Harry. This earned him a momentary twitch of the left corner of Snape's mouth. "Right, how about _climb up my arm and rest there calmly_?"

Snape said nothing, and the serpent didn't move.

"_Look me in the eyes and hiss the Hogwarts school song?_"

Snape raised an eyebrow, and the serpent twitched, hissing for a few seconds. "Very good, Mr. Potter, but even thinking in Parseltongue will be of no use against your most dangerous foe."

_Right, because Voldie's not as dead as we'd like_, Harry thought miserably. "_Writhe around in an infinity symbol_," he told the conjured serpent, focusing on his shields again.

"Very good," Snape told him as the serpent writhed. "Now," he conjured a second serpent, identical to the first, "continue."

* * *

Snape had set up a system for Harry - every time Harry got a command through to all the serpents, and Snape didn't know what the command was, Harry earned a point. It would take ten points to clear the training, and Snape kept adding more serpents. After about three hours of constant effort, Harry had earned two points.

Snape was reading a book - Harry didn't know what of, but he suspected it was none of his business.

"Correct."

_That's actually very impressive,_ thought Harry,_ but it's also really frustrating._

"As you have been told, Mr. Potter, your training in Occlumency will continue until my dying day."

Harry had noticed a distinct tendency to the morbid in Snape's statements.

"As to the command of these serpents, you will find it far harder to control the Greater Serpents than any conjured snake, just as these conjured entities, bound to a wizard's will, are more difficult to command than mortal serpents. If you are to have any hope against the Dark Lord, you will need every advantage you can find, and a Patronus in your hair will not even slow him down."

Harry grimaced - he'd tried water, soap, and elbow grease, but his hair still shimmered with joy-laced magic. It was subtle in light, at least, and it seemed to be fading slowly, but Harry wasn't sure if that was a result of his embarrassment or a natural result of the botched charm.

"Enough for tonight." Snape flexed his wand, and the door opened. "Try to keep your focus, Mr. Potter. I do not tolerate failure."

* * *

Harry tried to visit Hagrid for tea on Friday afternoon. He'd missed the first week, busy as he was with classes and secret meetings, but it was time for _friendship_.

He was rather surprised when an Elf blocked the main doors.

"Dobby?"

The Elf shook its head. _A Castle-Elf, then,_ thought Harry.

"It is my very good pleasure to meet you, O Elf," said Hermione, having reached the same conclusion - Harry's normal posse of Gryffindors had elected to accompany him, given the danger of fainting if he met a Dementor en route.

The Castle-Elf gave her a startled look, then turned back to Harry. "I am not Dobby," it began. "I am Schor, of the Castle-Elves."

Harry nodded. "Nice to meet you, Schor," he said.

"Schor knows Dobby," Schor told him. "Dobby has asked that we of the Castle-Elves keep watch on Harry Potter when Dobby is unable to do so."

Harry groaned. _That promise is going to get me into a lot of trouble_, he thought. Ron clapped him on the shoulder encouragingly.

Schor nodded. "Harry Potter is correct."

"About what?" asked Neville. Hermione was politely waiting for Schor to address her directly.

"Harry Potter is remembering the promise he promised to Dobby," Schor replied.

Hermione gave Harry an inquisitive look, of the kind that she probably thought said something. Harry wished she'd stop giving people those looks, since she was the only one that knew what they were supposed to mean. He shrugged at her. "What's so dangerous about visiting Hagrid?" he asked, although he knew the answer already.

"Dementors," whispered Schor. "They hate you, Harry Potter, for what was done to you as a child, and the consequences of those actions."

Harry sighed. "And since they're not allowed inside the castle, and most of the students aren't in danger, I'm not allowed to go outside?"

"It would violate the terms of your promise," Schor confirmed. "Unless all of Hogwarts is in danger, Harry Potter must not put himself in danger."

Understanding dawned on Hermione's face.

Ron grinned. "So it's alright if _we_ put Harry in danger, then?"

Schor thought about that for a moment. "Schor supposes it would be allowed under the terms," he affirmed. "But Schor would prefer you didn't."

"Can you tell Hagrid to come to the castle for tea?" asked Harry.

Schor grinned. "Schor can _bring_ Hagrid to the castle for tea!" He vanished, leaving behind a sparkling-clean tea-tray on an oversized oak table.

"Couldn't ask him for some pumpkin juice, could you?" Ron complained, taking a seat.

"Ron, _really_," objected Hermione. "You shouldn't exploit the Castle-Elves just because they're convenient."

Ron _whuhephumphed_.

They spent a few minutes in conversation, in which it was revealed that Ron had graduated from chess to an increasingly complex series of custom-built chess-like strategy games based on standard wizarding combat and Hermione had finally figured out the unifying constant of jelly-conjuring spells - a surprisingly diverse subcategory of magic, with its own unique applications in culinary and military pursuits.

Neville had finally finished the _Memoirs of Herman Stuttle_, and was mastering their application as an enhancement to his Occlumency shields. He'd managed to make Snape sweat in his last lesson, and had gotten out early as a result.

The great doors opened, and Hagrid, lugging a sack of rock cakes, lumbered in.

* * *

Luna and Ginny, stating a preference for the names 'Ocean Mover' and 'Lady Scarlet', inserted themselves in the tea party - Harry was a bit depressed that his afternoon of friendship could be described as a tea party - about halfway through. Harry thought 'Lady Scarlet' was an interesting name for Luna, and said so, earning him a rather unpleasant hex from Ron's little sister.

"I rather like the sparkles in your hair, Destroyer of Destroyer," Luna 'Lady Scarlet' Lovegood told him. "They offset the purple skin rather nicely."

"Er, thanks," said Harry. "Violet's not really my shade, though."

Luna nodded. "You would look dashing in red and gold, though. Or perhaps silver and green, to match your eyes."

Ron shuddered. "No Slytherin colors for Harry," he proclaimed. "He's a Gryffindor to the core!"

"Except for his left ear," added Neville, nodding. "That's Hufflepuff".

Hagrid roared with laughter. "Ah, I 'aven't had this much fun since the last time Lupin was in the castle. Think I'll visit 'im before I head back."

Harry was instantly distracted from his conversation with Luna the Fashion Bringer. "You knew Lupin?"

Hagrid nodded. "Didn' I tell you? He an' yer dad, and Peter an' Black, they were all friends at Hogwarts."

Harry did remember allusions to those names. "You implied that Peter was dead, we all know what happened to my father... What about Black?"

Hagrid fixed him with a piercing stare. "_Sirius_ Black," he explained.

They shared a moment of silence for the conversation that had just died.

"So, Ron, how about that Quidditch?"

Ron scowled. "Draco's bought his way onto the Slytherin team with a set of fancy new top-of-the-line brooms," he reported.

"Well," Hermione noted, her side conversation with Ginny having been caught in the blast front of Hagrid's dialogue-destroying revelation, "he _did_ do pretty well against you in that catch-the-flying-key room last-"

"_He bought his way onto the team with fancy brooms_," Ron insisted. "The smarmy git."

Harry tried not to smile. "Come on, Ron. How are you going to deal with their fancy brooms?"

Ron growled. "Train hard, don't hesitate, strong defense, maybe invent a new maneuver for Angelina and Katie to snake past the snake's defenses. Master level tactics. Bloody-mindedness."

"Catching the Snitch?" suggested Draco, who had sidled up behind Ron at just the right moment to miss the latter's insults. Ron jumped out of his chair.

"Say that to my face, Malfoy!" he challenged.

Malfoy leaned in close, having to stand on his toes to look Ron in the eyes. "Catching the Snitch," he said, enunciating every syllable with perfect clarity. "It's fun. You should try it."

Ron clenched his wand, which had mysteriously appeared in his hand. "The Snitch is unnecessary," he hissed. "Gryffindor proved that."

"Still worth a ton of points, though," Neville offered fearlessly.

Ron rolled his eyes. "Yes, alright, Neville. I'll try to catch the Snitch. For you."

"Marvelous!" exclaimed Draco, clapping his hands together in exaggerated glee. "Hardly a challenge at all if you didn't."

Ron grumbled, sipping at his pumpkin juice.

"Join us," Harry offered, "there's plenty of tea left."

"Darjeeling?" inquired Malfoy.

"Er, I think so." Harry looked at Neville. "Neville?"

"We've got Jasmine, Darjeeling, and East Scots Thaumic," Neville recited. "Honestly, I'd recommend the Thaumic, it's perfectly suited for these rock cakes."

"True enough," Hagrid rumbled, eating two of the impervious articles at once.

Draco hesitated. "Harry, why are you fuchsia?"

"He's not, he's purple," Ginny 'Ocean Mover' Weasley told him. "Fuchsia has more red in it."

"I think Harry looks more violet than purple," opined Luna. "Especially around the eyes."

Draco sat down opposite Harry, between the two younger ladies, a seat materializing out of thin Elves for his convenience. "No, no, that's a trick of the lighting," he said. "The windows in this hall make everything yellower than it should be, he's definitely purple."

Harry smiled, and a fleck of residual Patronus charm landed in his eye.


	25. Chapter 5: Once Again

Book Two

Being a continued exploration of the differences in Mr. Potter's life pursuant to the events described in the preceding book.

Harry Potter, all related characters, and the original Harry Potter narrative are properties of J. K. Rowling.

Chapter 5

Once Again

Time passed easily for the next month or so, although Snape took over Lupin's class for a week while the shabby professor was out with some exotic disease or other. Someone raided the Thunder Room in early October, and the Twins swore it hadn't been them, but no-one really believed them. If not for the total lack of casualties - the raid had occurred at night, while most of the students were in their beds - they might have blamed Sirius Black.

Ginny and Luna installed themselves in Hagrid's Friday teatimes as regulars, and - since Hagrid had moved his teatime meetings from his cottage to the entry hall of Hogwarts - frequently had students of various years dropping in to ask Hagrid or Hermione or Neville or Ron for advice with animals, magical theory, Herbology, or some variety of tactical puzzler.

Ginny had received a very loud red letter from her mother, which was simultaneously confused, berating, and approving. She'd taken to life as a Ravenclaw quite happily, and was enjoying the opportunity to live where her brothers couldn't reach her. Fred and George, of course, had pranked her half a dozen times by the second week, but they were legends.

"Bloody Dementors - 'scuse my language," rumbled Hagrid, regaling them with recent events outside the castle walls, "they've been eating the chickens, say they need 'sustenance' an' they can't get any through the castle walls."

"That sounds like a good thing to me," Harry told him. "I'd rather not faint halfway through Potions."

Ron elbowed him. "Harry, mate, you keep ribbing yourself about the fainting, how are we supposed to get any digs in?"

"Glittery hair?"

Ginny chuckled nervously. She'd been jittery around Harry since the Twins' last prank, but they insisted it had been a standard short-sheeting bed and a careful Confundus charm to make her think she'd grown to giant size.

"I rather liked that," Luna stated, staring - as usual - at an apparently empty point in space. "Perhaps I could learn how to make a Patronus to glitter for me."

Harry sighed. His hair had stopped glittering once he'd managed a steady Patronus charm; he could produce a solid shield of silver light, and he'd figured out how to _push_ his happy memories through it, making a pulse that would probably confuse a Dementor for a fraction of a second. His friends - Draco included, and Greg and Vincent were making steady progress - could only make fragile films of energy, scarcely enough to delay a determined Dementor.

"We haven't really mastered the charms yet," Harry told her. "I'm sure you could join us, we don't even have any Dementors in the room or anything." They hadn't tested their Patronus charms against Dementors at all - but from Dumbledore's speech, Lupin's attitude, and Snape, Harry knew it was only a matter of time before something went hideously wrong.

"Lupin says they make animals once we really _get_ the incantation," Ron observed. "Hope mine's a lion or a dragon or something."

Ginny choked on her tea, spraying it across the table towards Ron. Harry had noticed that, given a moment's notice, Ginny preferred to aim accidents at her siblings.

Ron glared at her. "What?"

"Nothing," mumbled Ginny, setting down her cup. "I just thought you'd be more of a rat person."

Harry winced. Ron had been rather touchy on the topic of Rats since the Thunder Raid, with Scabbers missing.

"One to talk," Ron retorted.

Teatime devolved into violence rather rapidly that Friday.

* * *

"Er," said somebody high-pitched. Harry did a quick catalogue of squeaky people he knew - Dobby, Schor, Ginny, an extremely nervous Aunt Petunia, Ron after the Twins pranked him with _Giftblumen_ a week ago.

Harry decided to turn around and see who was chasing his invisible self down the halls of Hogwarts at night. "Er," he echoed, lowering his hood. "Hi, Ginny."

Ginny had somehow convinced Fred to give her his Airsight goggles. She'd left off the demonic mask of torment, thankfully. She stood there, staring at Harry's floating head, and said absolutely nothing.

"Enjoying the emptiness?" Harry was still trying to catch Fred and George, but those fancy goggles they'd invented made it far too easy for them to evade his attempts at invisible subterfuge. He kept the Cloak on to avoid Filch and other authority figures. Ginny still wasn't responding.

Harry was just starting to worry that Ginny was actually a clever wax statue and the Twins were sneaking up behind him with something unmentionable when she squeaked out "Wangodedaume?"

Harry blinked. He was pretty sure whatever Ginny had just said didn't mean anything, but you never knew with girls. "Er," he said again, glancing behind for hidden Weasleys. "What?"

Ginny took a deep breath. "W-Wangodedaume?" she repeated, more quietly than before. "And - and Luna," she gasped, blushing furiously.

_Or is it?_ wondered Harry, who had seen more than a few furious blushes before. "Um," he agreed, still quite confused. "I'm hunting your brothers at the moment. Maybe tomorrow?"

There was a quiet _smack_ as Ginny's hand met her forehead. "The dead dance," she explained, which wasn't much of an explanation. "Or the Ball of All Hallows, or the Feast of Souls, or the Great Pumpkin's Soiree. On Halloween. Luna and I are going to go talk to dead ghost people and watch them pretend to eat things."

Harry didn't blink, although he probably would have blinked if he hadn't broken his blink reflex training Parseltongue with Snape two nights previous. He considered the concept of ghosts having a feast for a few seconds. "Huh."

Ginny appeared to be holding her breath. She was also holding something behind her back, but that might turn out to be a secret pranking device, and Harry didn't want a repeat of Thursday's bungled ambush on the Twins. He was still tasting purple every time he turned his head to the left.

"Well, alright," said Harry. "If Silver Sea in Silver Stone is going to talk to ghosts, I'd rather not miss it."

"Bwuh?"

"Luna."

"Oh." The confused expression on Ginny's face was adorable.

"Well," Harry told her, pulling his cloak over his head again, "I'll see you around, Shadow Spooker."

He twitched his wand, muttering a minor wind-conjuring hex he'd managed to master, and slipped away while Ginny was trying to figure out if 'Shadow Spooker' was good or bad.

* * *

"And _here it is!_" shouted Lupin, wrenching open the closet door. Ron, having been first in line - Neville had requested the privilege of being last - twisted his secondhand wand and shouted _"Riddikulus_!" just as they'd been taught, turning the massive, disgustingly hairy venom-dripping spider of terror into a cuddly purple plushie with no fangs at all. He let it climb up his arm, cringing a bit as it nuzzled his face, then laughed out loud.

"Next!" called Lupin. Harry was enjoying himself far too much for a Thursday, and he knew the Boggart would turn into something unmanageable when it got to him, but he couldn't for the life of him think of what it might wind up being. The thing he fears most?

_"Riddikulus!_" Hermione turned the Letter of Expulsion into a Letter of Explosion, which made lovely fireworks.

_The thing I fear most... I've never thought about it,_ Harry pondered. _Death? Nah, it's either blank nothingness or some kind of pre-approved hero afterlife. Probably. Dying? _

Seamus converted a Bansidhe into a pop star, which wasn't much of an improvement.

_Dying would probably be awful, but it's over quick enough. Embarrasment? _

Clouds of lethal poison became mere cloying perfume.

_Not really worth the trouble,_ Harry decided. _And as for paparazzi, Colin Creevey's more annoying than scary. So what -_

The Boggart was in front of him.

The Boggart _was_ him.

_It's like looking into a mirror,_ thought Harry. _Again._ He chuckled.

"Supposed to change it _before_ laughing, Harry," Lupin told him, "but good job all the same."

Harry looked a little closer at the Boggart clone. _It's me. Why is it me? Why would I be afraid of being me? _"I don't understand," he told it.

Harry looked into his own eyes. "I'm alone," it said.

Harry started to get it. _I don't like this._

"There's no-one in this world for me. My friends are gone. My enemies are gone. No-one notices my existence."

"Depressed little rotter, isn't he?" Dean noted. "Not like our Harry at all."

Harry didn't hear him. Something about the double's words were stirring fear inside him, and he couldn't think of a way to make it stop being scary.

"My family is dead. I am the last Potter, and there will never be more."

"Alright, Harry, go on, use _Riddikulus_," Lupin prompted.

_I- that's _true_, I _am_ the last of my House_.

His double grinned at him, joyless and hateful. "_Hssssssssss"_ it said, shadow flowing from its eyes, its clothes spreading into tattered robes, its voice pulling Harry into a vivid memory of his parents' death.

"_Expecto Patronum_," Harry whispered. Then he fainted.

* * *

"Alright, Harry, have some chocolate," Lupin told him. He'd only been out a few seconds, from the look of it - Ron had his creepy plush spider on his shoulder again, and everyone else was still in their seats.

"Right, I'm all right, I think it turned into a Dementor when I realized I'm afraid of bad memories," Harry told him, accepting the chocolate. There was some sniggering from his classmages. "What?"

"You've got sparkles all over you, mate," Ron told him.

Harry looked himself over. "Ah, disco cube in a sanitarium," he cursed.

Lupin raised an eyebrow. "Disco... cube?"

"_Expecto Patronum,_" Harry muttered, drawing the sparkles from his body into a short-lived shield. "I like cubes, they're very cubish."

"Very well then," Lupin told him. "We might be able to get you some extra practice on your Patronus charm, since we've got a manageable Dementor substitute here."

Harry shrugged and returned to his seat. The only student left to face the Boggart was Neville - Ron had stuffed the plush spider back into its closet, calling it "creepily cutesy."

"Neville, are you ready to-" Neville nodded, opening the closet door himself. "Well, very good," Lupin approved. "Keep your image firmly in your mind, and be sure to laugh at that Boggart when you've got it on the ropes."

"As you say," Neville replied, walking back to his seat. He put _The Memoirs of Herman Stuttle, vol. II_ on the desk and opened it to page one.

"Neville, I think I missed your battle with the Boggart," Lupin admitted. "I may have blinked. Could you tell us what just happened?"

Neville picked up his book, displaying the title. "There never was a _Volume II_. The last chapter of _Memoirs_ was Herman's death."

The class edged a collective two inches away from Neville.

"Well," said Lupin, composedly. " I suppose I have to go find another Boggart now, don't I?"

* * *

The ghosts' Dead Dance, or whatever it was officially called, was rather exciting for about the first twelve seconds. Then, the novelty of a room filled with ghosts having faded, Harry was supremely distracted by the thought of the possible effects of Patronus charms on ghosts.

"So, Nick," Harry asked, keeping an ear on Watcher of the Unknown and an eye on Windstartler - also known as Luna and Ginny - "what do Dementors do to ghosts?"

Nick eyed him suspiciously. "Nothing whatsoever," he stated with finality. "We keep well clear of those unpleasant creatures."

Harry made a noncommittal noise, looking over the mostly-rotten food for some cheese. Cheese, at least, is _supposed_ to be moldy, and the Ghost Gathering had only managed to put the wrong kind of mold on _some_ of their cheeses.

"I suppose we dread the effect they might have on us, as beings of pure spirit and memory," Nick offered, "though one must admit their presence will keep the Headless Hunt from its usual shenanigans at our little get-together this year."

Harry made an inquisitive sound over a mouthful of Wensleydale. He was half-listening to Luna interrogating a ghost from a girls' bath, by the name of Myrtle - _means 'love' in Flower _- and hadn't really heard Nick's followup.

Nearly-Headless Nick showed off the reason for his unusual title, and explained something interestingly unimportant about the Headless Horsemen and their insistence on _total_ qualifications in interested applicants.

"Erm," Harry suggested, looking for a graceful exit from the conversation, "why don't you ask the Baron to, ah, 'qualify' you?"

"Ask the _Baron_ to -" Nick's expression of affrontery froze for a moment, then relaxed into a rather familiar look of curious contemplation. "And why not?" he murmured, replacing his head on top of his renowned neck. "Would you mind terribly if I -"

"Go on," Harry told him. He stepped over to Luna and Myrtle as Nick sought out the Bloody Baron and his ghostly sword.

"Ah, Sparkles," Luna wafted, raising a series of questions about her linguistic abilities that shall remain unanswered. "Have you seen where Terror of Darkness went off to? I'm afraid she's been plagued by dreaming walks lately, and can't seem to find her until she awakes."

"What?" Harry took a moment to work out what Luna had said, marveling momentarily at her patience. "Er, no, not sure where Ginny went. Thought she was talking to the snobby fellow with the sort of greenish-looking ghost beard."

Luna raised one eyebrow, eliciting envy from people who can't do that everywhere. "How odd," she noted, not deigning to explain why it would be odd to talk to a ghost with a beard that looked like it ought to look green.

"I know, it's just ghostly silver like always, but it _should_ look green," Harry agreed, completely missing Luna's unstated point. "I think he's a pirate."

Luna sighed.

"Maybe you ought to go look for her?" Myrtle suggested, surprising Harry, who had forgotten she was floating behind him. "Someone might have set another troll loose this year." She chuckled, which was rather disturbing.

"Right," Harry nodded. "It was very strange to meet you, Beloved of the Flowers," he added, trying to shake her insubstantial hand. From the look of Myrtle's face, the feeling was mutual.

Luna rolled her eyes. "Come along then, Sparkles," she told Harry, pulling him from the room.

* * *

They met the first Dementor before they even turned a corner. It _hissed_ at them, and Harry was suddenly much less curious about the effects of Dementors and Patronuses on ghosts, and much more interested in the effects of Patronuses on Dementors _before I faint again please_.

"_Expecto Patronum!_"

To Harry's mild disappointment, his Patronus didn't burst out in a flash of phoenix fire and burn the Dementor to ashes. Instead, it just got that pretty shield of light effect going.

"At least you're not Sparkles," Luna told him.

"But you just called me-"

"Warden of the Fearful," Luna preempted him. "I believe I'll find more Nargles in Professor Lupin's class than the Ravenclaw Common Room next Tuesday," she added.

Harry's Patronus _pulsed_, pushing the Dementor against the nearest wall. It hissed again, which sounded surprisingly not-angry to Harry's ears. He pushed it into the wall a little further, so it wouldn't follow them too quickly.

There were about fifteen Dementors between the ghosts' feast and the Great Hall. Luna had warned the ghosts that there were Dementors in the castle - Harry thought he could hear them whisking through the walls as they ran - and by the time Harry and Luna had reached the doors, Dumbledore had routed the rest of the Dark creatures from his castle.

It wasn't until after they'd made headcount that they found Filch, unmoving, his terrified cat trembling in his Petrified arms.

* * *

"Who d'you reckon did that to Filch?"

"My money's on Lupin, it's always the Defense instructor."

Students were throwing theories around like monkeys throw certain materials of similar quality. The most prevalent theories involved an ancient Hogwarts legend about 'the Chamber of Secrets,' because of the indelible message scrawled on the wall above Filch. Half of them blamed Sirius Black, claiming he'd probably learned Salazar's secrets in service of Voldemort, although none of that theory's supporters went so far as to name the mostly-dead villain.

"Hermione?" asked Harry, hoping for her views on the topic.

"Yes," Hermione replied.

"Good," interjected Ron, "because I've heard there's a potion that can change people into other people, and we need a decent check for that."

Hermione sighed. "Polyjuice Potion, Ron, it takes over a month to brew and the only one in Hogwarts with the supplies is Snape."

"Right," Ron agreed, "and I wouldn't put it past him to test us by impersonating you."

Hermione shuddered. "What did you want, Harry?"

Harry discarded the half-formed witticisms he'd been working on. "Your thoughts on the Chamber?"

"It's probably fake," she admitted. "Nobody's been able to find it since Hogwarts was founded, although there were rumors of an Heir to Slytherin's power about fifty years ago."

Harry waited.

"_Fine_, and that was when Voldemort would have been in school," Hermione capitulated. "So if there _is_ a Chamber, it's probably got his interference all through it, started his rise to Darkness, maybe contains books of secret personal spells by one of Hogwarts' Founders." Her expression got a bit dreamy at that last part.

"Focus, Hermione," warned Neville.

"It hasn't even been a _day_ yet, how incredible do you think I am?"

Neville and Ron just stared at her, while Harry shrugged and said "Hermajesty, Queen of Knowledge."

Hermione sighed again. "Look, Mr. Filch was Petrified and I don't _know_ what happened to Mrs. Norris, just because she's attached herself to me doesn't tell me what got _him_."

"Petrified?" Harry asked, wondering if that was some kind of rare magical effect.

"It's some kind of rare magical effect," explained Hermione. "It... well, it does what happened to Mr. Filch."

"Oy, Hermione," Ron interrupted, "why the honorific?"

"Cleans the castle himself," Harry and Hermione told him.

"No, that's the Castle-Elves," Ron corrected them. "Filch just looks for students out of line."

"Well, then he's the only one keeping students in line between classes _in the entire castle_," Harry suggested. "That still takes incredible speed and awareness."

"So what, he's a superhuman now?"

"Says the _wizard_," Harry reminded him.

Ron the wizard nodded, seeming to understand.


	26. Chapter 6: A Series of Events

Book Two

Being a continued exploration of the differences in Mr. Potter's life pursuant to the events described in the preceding book.

Harry Potter, all related characters, and the original Harry Potter narrative are properties of J. K. Rowling.

Chapter 6

A Series of Events

"The Petrification of our dear caretaker was rather unfortunate," Lupin acceded, "although it gave us a _smashing_ chance to show off all our Patronuses, and I never liked him when I was a student. Did any of you manage a corporeal Patronus yet?"

Everyone shook their heads. There were students from every year in Lupin's Patronus lectures now, and he'd had to expand his office to make room for all of them.

"I didn't faint," Harry proclaimed proudly. Several older students chuckled.

"Neither did I," a young Hufflepuff echoed.

"_Nobody_ fainted," Draco shouted over the din of students laughingly confessing their lack of blackouts. "But Harry _used_ to faint whenever he met a Dementor."

Harry began to wonder if the next Boggart he saw would be a team of Draco, Colin Creevey, and the Hogwarts Student Body, all gathered together to mock him. He was definitely looking forward to fighting Dementors more than stewing in his own humiliation. Again. Today.

"Harry, would you care to take first shot at our lovely volunteer?" Lupin called, rolling out a large object covered in gold-embroidered silk.

_Volunteer?_ "Er, volunteer, Professor?"

Lupin gave him a look, as he did every time Harry called him 'Professor.' "Harry, I knew your parents personally, and was very nearly your Godfather. Be a bit more familiar!"

_Definitely the humiliation,_ Harry thought, expecting a Boggart beneath the shroud. "Right, Professor Lupin."

Lupin gave a little sigh. "Well, our guest has been waiting long enough, I think. Harry, meet the Dementor you pinned to the wall in the Hogwarts Dungeon last week."

_Wait what- _

Lupin levitated the silk shroud, revealing a Dementor that may or may not have been the one Harry had first stopped with the Patronus charm. "The Dementors have been apologizing for their behaviour constantly, claiming they were trying to 'protect' all of you - who knows, with the Chamber open they might even be serious about it. This one volunteered to help train all of you as a sign of good faith."

Hermione was speechless, and the rest of the class was scarcely better. Harry felt the Dementor - which, due to its nearly-selfless act of putting itself in a room full of mostly-defenseless students, was about to earn a nickname - start to pull some of his joy away, and knew the memories would start in a few seconds. He pulled a thought of Hagrid having tea into his mind.

"_Expecto Patronum_."

* * *

After nearly an hour of practicing, most of the students could manage a steady shield. Harry had developed a multi-faceted shield that could pin Dementors, a pulse that could shove them away if they were right on top of him, and a quick side-to-side swipe that would probably be useful if it also blocked the Dementors' spiritual and mental assaults. It certainly made an impression on Steve the Dementor, whose longsuffering attitude had earned him the right to a name in Harry's unwritten book.

Harry almost regretted smashing his Patronus shield into the thing so much.

"All right, Harry, one more shot and we'll call it a day," Lupin told him. "Think about everything that makes you happy, all the best things in your life, and wrap them up into the spell."

"Right. Thanks in advance, Steve." Harry thought of his friends. The bonds he'd forged with fellow students of all houses, even if he mostly spent time with Gryffindor and Draco's posse. Snape, even so misanthropic and spiteful as he was. He breathed deeply. He thought of Hagrid, and the faces of his family, presumably watching over him from Heaven. Unless they had gone the other way for being magical. _Wish I wasn't rubbish at theology so I could use those memories_. Either way they'd be proud of him. Harry clung to that thought, wrapping it around the joy of loving friendship. _I am NOT alone._

"_Expecto Patronum!_" hissed Harry, flourishing his wand. A massive ribbon of silver light, resplendent in its glory, erupted from the tip of his wand. For a moment Harry thought he noticed a flash of yellow.

Lupin began applauding. The collected students began whispering. Harry's corporeal Patronus coiled around him, its eyes shut fast, its scaled bulk offering no avenue of attack for any Dementor that might make the effort.

Lupin stopped applauding. "Harry..."

"It's corporeal!" shouted Harry, exultant. "_You're corporeal!_"

Lupin vaulted over Harry's Patronus, his face etched with more concern than a barrel of Molly Weasleys could muster in a month of Sundays. "Harry, why are you a Parselmouth?" he whispered.

"What?" His jubilation cut short, Harry noticed the current of fear that ran through the class' whispering. Hermione in particular had recoiled, and was covering her eyes for some reason. "How did-"

"_Look at your Patronus!_" cried Lupin, tears standing in the corners of his eyes.

Harry looked.

Harry's Patronus was a Basilisk.

* * *

The new theory, which about two-thirds of the school had adopted with impunity, was that Harry was the Heir of Slytherin and had opened the Chamber of Secrets. The fact that his Patronus was a Basilisk - and had done something very like killing to Steve the Dementor, who might or might not ever recover - was really just icing on the delicious carrot cake of Parseltongue.

It didn't help that Hermione had isolated the contents of the Chamber to a Basilisk or the ancient spellbooks she was openly hoping for. Nor did it help that Hagrid had confirmed the Basilisk theory after a short trip to the Forbidden Forest.

The fact that nobody had been Petrified since Halloween didn't seem to convince anyone of anything.

Ron's conspiracy board, which had kept Peeves completely distracted for almost three weeks, had tentative ties from Harry to Voldemort, Slytherin, the Ancient and Most Honorable House of Malfoy, and 'Secret Galactic Plot for Unlimited Energy'.

"What? I like to keep a crazy theory on there for perspective," he'd explained. He also had a few wild theories about Scabbers' continued absence.

Harry still wasn't sure why he'd called his Patronus with Parseltongue.

"Most likely related to your training," Snape told him that Thursday. "With the progress you've made at controlling Serpents, it is not unexpected that they would claim a central part of your identity. It seems its gaze is effective against Dementors."

Ron had several lines to questions marks, most of them connected to Snape.

* * *

It was Mrs. Norris that finally broke the chokehold of anti-Harry sentiment. She'd been hiding in Hermione's bed since Filch had been Petrified, for reasons of her own, but after Harry had been Hogwarts Enemy number One for about a week she'd snuck into the Thunder Room and curled up on his shoulder. Iris had been rather jealous, of course, but a minute's petting and a dead mouse from Mrs. Norris had cheered her up considerably.

When he went down to breakfast, Harry was surprised to find a large banner strung over the Great Hall reading 'Welcome Back Harry, Thunder against Darkness!'

_Got to love the classics,_ thought Harry, walking into the hall. Fred and George accosted him at the entrance, frog-marching him to a visible seat at the Gryffindor table.

"Er, hi, FredandGeorge," Harry greeted them. "What's going on?"

"We were going to prank you last night," Fred began, "But-"

"What with ickle Norris on your shoulder-"

"We decided you'd won this one."

Harry brightened at that. "Do I get to see the Spleen, then?"

The twins shared a glance. "Er, no," they admitted. "But we'll give you the Map next year, that'll help you catch us."

Harry was confused. "What?"

"Didn't we mention?"

"The Airsight Goggles are bunk."

"Mostly."

"Mostly bunk. They work, but we can't tell who's invisible with all the wind vectors illuminated like that."

Harry's eyebrows twitched as he worked out the implications. "Then when you caught me-"

"Don't get us wrong, that's what the goggles were for, but we'd never have known it was you without the map."

"Tells us who's where in Hogwarts. Never lies."

"Unless you ask it about the handsome devils that made it," Fred added.

"Oh, yes, they'll lie their parchment blue if you give 'em half a chance."

* * *

Once he'd gotten free of the Twins, Harry had found that they'd shared their story - sans map - through the entire student body. The movers and shakers thereof, lead by Draco Malfoy, had declared Mrs. Norris proof of Harry's innocence in this matter. After all, the cat wouldn't guard her owner's enemy, would she?

There were a few holdouts, mostly in the delinquent upperclassmen that had run afoul of Mrs. Norris once too often on a midnight tryst.

Harry took some time to catch up with his friends, who hadn't had much time to talk with him over the past week.

Neville had finished _Volume II_ of Stuttle's diary, and it had obligingly transformed into _Volume III, urtext edition_. Harry was a bit worried that Neville's pet Boggart would eventually show him the Necronomicon, or something equally perilous, but so far it was just more Stuttle. Neville hinted that he'd named the Boggart Francis, and was teaching it tricks. He'd also started practicing illusions.

Ron had mastered parallax hyperchess, and moved on to real time holographic war simulations, which Flitwick arbitrated in full view of the student body 'to improve morale'. Several students had volunteered for live combat training under Ron's tactical supervision. Snape and Flitwick, in response, had started organizing a dueling club and a wargame club, again to 'improve morale'. Ron had signed up for both, as had Draco and Hermione.

Draco revealed that his private tutoring with Snape had started to include non-sanctioned spells, of the sort usually reserved for family tutelage. Snape had developed many of them himself, and learned many more during the war; Draco claimed his father had arranged this tutoring in full accordance with Wizarding law, though Harry suspected the pale boy had learned a few spells, at least, that weren't part of the legal arrangement.

Vincent had finished therapy and started looming again, but he was far more likely to use his words to communicate than he had been before.

Greg admitted to a somewhat lessened lexicon of linguistic legerdemain, though Harry honestly believed the opposite.

Time passed smoothly again, even without Filch roaming the halls. Harry looked up Myrtle, the ghost he'd briefly met at Halloween, and spent several evenings discussing flowers and school life with her. Once he got past the idle moaning and wailing, she was actually quite pleasant.

* * *

"-big, yellow eyes," she told him, finishing the tale of her own death.

"That's simultaneously tragic and fascinating," Harry responded. "So... you got killed by a Basilisk stare?"

Myrtle nodded. "Oooh, that's _right_, you've got a Basilisk for a Guardian Spirit," she cooed. "Didn't I hear you were hoping to test your Patronus on ghosts?"

Harry scratched his neck nervously. "You heard about that. Er. Well, I _was_ curious..."

Myrtle made a face at him.

"It's not like I'm going to do anything without permission!"

"_Hmm_," Myrtle _hmm_ed. "Well, if you'll hold my hand I'll let you call your Patronus for me," she decided.

Harry was a bit confused. "Er," he said, "I'm a bit confused. I didn't think ghosts _could_ hold people's hands."

Myrtle chortled. "Try it."

Harry tried it. It was, as before, like plunging his hand into a stream of frozen memory. Not like a stream of frozen water, which would be wet and clingy, or a stream of frozen breath, which would be - _huh, what would that be like? Not like this, though._ It felt much more _memory-ish_ to Harry. Strange, chilly, and occasionally in motion, with brief flashes of familiarity, but as soon as his hand was out of her hand, the sensation ended.

"Huh," said Harry.

Myrtle took his hand in hers, which caused a rather different sensation. It was still chilly and memory-ish, but instead of plunging his hand _into_ frozen memory, it felt like running his hand _over_ frozen memory. Also she was holding his hand.

"_Huh_," said Harry. Myrtle giggled.

"Go on, then, call your big scary Serpent."

Harry stood, reclaiming his hand, and focused his happy thoughts. "_Expecto Patronum!_" He could tell it was still in Parseltongue.

_"You called for me, Master?" _

"Habawha!"

Myrtle gave him an odd look, then floated up to sit on his Patronus. "It's rather comfy," she told him. "Like a cuddly puppy or a giant snake with _death eyes_."

"Er," said Harry. "_Are you independently sentient, as living Basilisks are?_"

The Patronus stared at him. "_I am an extension of your lifeforce, given form by spirit, and follow the rules of magic. I cannot disobey your will. Thus, I do not have freedom, and sapience beyond that granted through Parseltongue is irrelevant._"

"Er," repeated Harry. "_What happens when you meet ghosts?_"

"_Being made of spiritual substance, I am able to interact with ghosts. I am unable to destroy ghosts, as they are formed of thought and memory, and not formed of death or death's magic_."

_Thrice I 'huh' and done_, Harry thought. "Huh."

"What's it saying?" asked Myrtle, scratching the Patronus behind its lack of ears. It leaned into the scratch appreciatively, which was very confusing.

"It says it can't hurt ghosts, but it can touch them," Harry told her. "Which you pretty much figured out by sitting on it."

"What about its eyes?"

Harry looked at his Patronus. It had kept its eyes shut the entire time - he remembered it had had them closed after 'killing' Steve the Dementor, as well. "_What do your eyes do?" _

It turned to him. "_I do not know. They have a near-death function against Dementors, although recovery is possible for such creatures of Death. The effects on living creatures or ghosts cannot be predicted. No Wizard in living memory has ever had a Basilisk Patronus._"

Both of Harry's eyebrows raised at that. Normally, only one of his eyebrows would raise at a startling pronouncement - something he'd practiced for hours in his cupboard, when he'd run out of books to read and couldn't get out for more. This deserved both.

"None? _Er, none?_"

"_I can understand your human speech,_" it told him, chuckling. "_Though lesser Serpents cannot, and none but I would obey it_."

"Oh, that's convenient."

"Oooh, little Harry's learning new things about his pet monster," chuckled Myrtle. "Is it as bad as a real one?"

"We don't know," Harry admitted. "I don't think Patronuses have venom for anything but Dementors, but the eyes are a mystery."

Myrtle stopped laughing. "I... I want to look in its eyes," she told him.

* * *

Harry had dismissed his Patronus, and gone straight for Dumbledore. Dumbledore had sent for Snape. The four of them - including Myrtle - were now waiting for Harry to call his Patronus again, and test the effects on the volunteer subject. The test was only being allowed because Myrtle was already dead, technically, and would probably survive even a live Basilisk with no worse than Petrification.

"_Expecto Patronum!_" Harry called, his massive Patronus coiling around him again. A few sparkling scales rubbed off onto his robes, and he sighed. "I'm stuck with Sparkles, it seems."

"_Have I been given a Name?_"

"Um," Harry told it. "I think so."

The Patronus shivered with glee.

"Harry, would you be so kind as to tell us what your Patronus is saying?" asked Dumbledore.

"Right. I've just named it Sparkles. Him. Named _him_ Sparkles."

Dumbledore smiled, a quiet twinkle in his eyes. Myrtle chuckled, and even Snape didn't glower quite as much as usual.

"We are ready," Snape stated.

"Right, ah, Sparkles, look at Myrtle and open your eyes."

"_Are you certain?" _

"She asked you to," Harry told the Serpent. "Myrtle, you're still sure about this?" Myrtle nodded. "Myrtle says yes," said Harry.

Sparkles opened its eyes.

Myrtle stared into them, unmoving.

A few minutes passed.

"Myrtle, dear," inquired Dumbledore, "are you all right?"

Myrtle nodded, very slowly. "It's so beautiful," she crooned, her voice almost inaudible.

"Sparkles, can you tell me what's happening?" Harry asked.

"_She is not dying, nor is she suffering from my gaze. I suspect my gaze is death only unto death._"

Harry relayed Sparkles' statement.

"Fascinating," Snape stated. "Regrettably, it will be more difficult to find a _living_ volunteer to test your newfound capabilities."

Harry blinked, and noticed Mrs. Norris staring into Sparkles' eyes.

Snape said absolutely nothing for several seconds. Harry found it interesting that, despite nothing being said, it was clearly Snape that was not doing the saying thereof. It reminded him of Neville for some reason.

"It is sometimes convenient to be wrong," Snape said, breaking his (and by extension everyone else's) silence. "Though perhaps the cat has more than one life."

_More than one -_ Harry smacked himself in the forehead. "Of course!" He stepped over to Mrs. Norris, petted her gently, then turned to Dumbledore and Snape. "Mrs. Norris must have seen the Basilisk on Halloween - _directly_ - and run to Mr. Filch when she _lost one of her nine lives!_"

Dumbledore's eyes widened slightly.

"I've got to tell Hermione, she'll want to know that cats have more than one life-"

"That might also tell us why dear Mrs. Norris so fearlessly braved the gaze of _your_ Basilisk," Dumbledore told him. "I dare say she is the first cat in many years to suffer the trauma of a life lost in such a way - truly, she is a courageous cat. Perhaps we should arrange some sort of recognition for her?" Mrs. Norris hissed at him. "Perhaps not," the old wizard agreed. "Though I've never known her to say no to a bit of plain fish."

Harry dismissed Sparkles.

* * *

Harry awoke just past midnight on Christmas Eve. Something was in the Thunder Room, and since he could hear it he knew it wasn't a Weasley. Ron made _far_ more noise than that, and the rest of them were quieter than Bagginses.

_Right, so its either Dobby, Schor, an Elf I don't know, or the wanted murderer known as Sirius Black_.

"Dobby?"

There was a tiny gasp. "The great Harry Potter has remembered Dobby's name!"

Harry sighed. _It's going to be like this, then_. "Hi, Dobby. It's nice to see you again, or it will be when I actually _see_ you. There you are."

Dobby made an excited sound that Harry couldn't even hope to parse into words.

"Er, what can I do for you, Dobby?"

"Dobby... has come to apologize. The danger has come to Hogwarts, and Dobby could not change it, and Harry Potter is in danger."

"Well, yes, we talked about this. I'm not putting myself in danger, Schor is making sure I keep that promise - can't even step outside even though I've got Sparkles to protect me, I mean, how much danger can Dementors give me when I know they're there?"

Dobby started hopping from one foot to the other. "Dobby knows that Harry Potter is a great wizard, but Dobby is amazed by Harry Potter's greatness _again_! But Harry Potter cannot go into danger, Harry Potter might not be able to call Harry Potter's Guardian. Harry potter cannot go into danger even if Harry Potter is guarding Harry Potter. Harry Potter _must_ not put Harry Potter in danger."

"Can you tell me why yet?"

"Dobby can't," Dobby told him, wringing Dobby's hands.

"Ahh, don't cry now, I figured it would be something like that."

"Dobby would like to take Harry Potter to a safe place."

Harry shook his head. "I never agreed to get myself _out_ of danger, Dobby. As long as my friends are also in danger, I can't leave."

Dobby sighed. "Dobby was afraid that Harry Potter might be obstinate. Dobby has looked for the source of danger, but Dobby cannot find it, and that gives Dobby great fear."

"Er, why?"

Dobby really did start crying. "Dobby cannot tell Harry Potter. But Harry Potter knows already. _Where can the Castle Elves not seek_?"

Dobby vanished in his Elvish way, leaving Harry to ponder what let Elves Disapparate on Hogwarts grounds. He'd finally started reading _Hogwarts: A History_ - skimming, really - and every other chapter mentioned the Apparition and Disapparition wards.

As for the place Elves couldn't go, it was probably the Chamber of Secrets. Harry decided to start tracking that down first thing in the morning.


	27. Chapter 7: Bad Things

Book Two

Being a continued exploration of the differences in Mr. Potter's life pursuant to his understanding Victorian flower language at age 11.

Harry Potter, all related characters, and the original Harry Potter narrative are properties of J. K. Rowling.

Chapter 7

Bad Things

For Christmas, Harry got a pile of delicious chocolates, a new Weasley-crafted sweater, a set of Airsight goggles, two toothbrushes from Luna - one much larger than the other, with a tube of glitter instead of toothpaste and the inscription 'for Sparkles'.

Also he got a Petrified Ron.

* * *

"_Completely_ unfair," Malfoy complained. "I was going to _crush _him in the Quidditch match next week, I had it all planned out, see? Now we'll have to wait until _next_ _year_!"

"Relax, Draco," Neville told him. "Professor Sprout's been cultivating mandrakes, remember? Soon as they mature, everyone will be right as rain."

"How right _is_ rain?" grumbled Draco.

Neville smirked. "Pretty much as right as it gets, Draco," he replied.

Draco grumbled some more. Hermione, opposite him at Hagrid's table - Hagrid was still holding tea in Hogwarts, even though Harry could technically put himself in danger now that everyone else was also potentially in danger - echoed the sound.

"We were going to be the first-year finalists," she muttered, her face in her teacup. "And now they've cancelled duels _and_ games."

Draco scoffed. "Still can't believe he got me in Duels."

"Chessmaster Ron?" Harry thought about elbowing Draco, but quickly discarded the idea. "Come on, Draco, he'd probably be able to beat _Hermione_, and she's finished all her fifth-year material already."

Draco twitched.

"More tea, Luna?"

"Yes, thank you, Trollslayer." Vincent grinned, looming in a teatime fashion.

"It's odd, though," Harry noted. "Ron's rat went missing, back during the Thunder Raid - never did find out what happened to it - and when he got Petrified his wand was gone, too."

Draco raised one eyebrow.

"It confuses me, see?" Harry took a sip of tea. "If somebody opened the Chamber of Secrets, they'd have to be a wizard, right?"

Draco stared at his tea.

"And wizards all have wands-"

"_Except convicted criminals_, Harry," Draco cut him off. "Sirius Black didn't _have_ a wand before he reached Hogwarts, Merlin knows how he managed that."

_Yes! We're making progress!_ "So how did Black get into the Chamber without a wand?"

Hagrid rumbled, taking another sip of his East Scots Thaumic. "Black," he thundered quietly. His brows scrunched down in concentration. "Always was a slippery one, was Black. Better at slippin' through the grounds than even Ron's brothers. Him an' Peter and James. Lupin not so much."

Harry realized who he should talk to next.

"Come _on_, Greg, what's taking so long?" muttered Draco, glancing at the west hallway.

* * *

After Ron's Petrification, the entire school had taken to carrying mirrors. Curiously, no Castle-Elves had been Petrified - they either had incredible hearing, or they weren't susceptible to Basilisk stares. Harry suspected the former.

Harry was glad to note a lack of Petrified students on the way to Lupin's office. He was less glad to note a lack of Lupin in Lupin's office, however. _Time to test the Twins' sense of timing._

"Oh dear," said Harry, stepping into the hallway. "I seem to have been given a large number of delicious pastries, which I can scarcely keep from dropping in these voluminous robes. I certainly hope no-one pulls a clever prank on me as I walk precariously down this passage!"

An older Hufflepuff looked at him askance, then ignored him. After all, Harry was just being Harry.

"Did someone mention delicious pastries?" George asked him, completely failing to startle Harry from behind.

"We've always a fondness for pastries," Fred confirmed, likewise not scaring Harry at all as he _dropped from the ceiling in front of me deep breath, okay, not scary_.

"I need to find Lupin," Harry told them. "Check your map for me?"

The Twins glared at him.

"Come on," Harry told them. "I summoned you somehow because I need to find people and stop bad things. Help me out here."

Fred and George glanced at each other, then huddled just behind Harry's head, where their words were just muffled enough to be impossible to understand.

"...got one..."

"Never...Orangutan"

"...Doomed."

They spun, instantly encircling Harry in an inescapable net of Weasley Prank Masters. Harry had a sinking feeling that he knew what 'Doomed' meant.

The Twins' faces split in grins of utter delight. "Right!"

Harry was too afraid to cringe.

"Good job, Harry, we reckon that counts."

_What?_ "What?" _They're not giving me unpleasant immediate pranking? _

"Well done!"

_This can't be good. I've angered the Lords of Schadenfreude, and their vengeance will be slow and terrible. They'll tie me to a post in the middle of the Forest, hex me into insulting Centaurs, and then light a rocket to shoot me to the moon._

"We can't show you the Ventricle today, far too busy," Fred told him.

"But once this whole 'evil Basilisk that Petrifies people and ruins Quidditch' thing is over, sure," George finished.

_-and then the glassworks - _"Not in the eyes!"

FredandGeorge had to stop for half a second to process that.

"You know, Fred," said George, "I think Harry's got the wrong idea here."

"Might be the right idea somewhere else, though," Fred reminded him.

"Too right."

Fred looked Harry in the eyes. "Tell us straight, Harry. Is what you're thinking worse than the old Code Apocalypse?"

Harry thought about that for a moment. "No," he concluded, just as the Twins were getting antsy, "Code Apocalypse involves the utter ruin of Hogwarts, its students, staff and supporters, and everything it stands for. This was just me fearing your vengeance."

"We'll want a full itemized list of pranks you thought we'd pull on you," Fred told him.

"And Lupin's in Snape's office," George supplied. "Take one of these."

Harry started walking automatically, not even realizing he'd been given a pair of Weasley Original Airsight Goggles.

* * *

Dumbledore was in Snape's office, too. As were McGonnagall, Sprout, Flitwick, and someone Harry hadn't seen before. Notorious by absence was Snape himself.

"Er," Harry said, alerting the teachers to his presence.

Dumbledore glanced at him, eyes entirely without twinkle. He was deep in conversation with Flitwick and Sprout, McGonnagall having just turned to greet Harry.

"Hello, Mr. Potter," she said. She seemed distracted. "To what do we owe this visit?"

Harry shifted a bit, worried at this degree of scrutiny from his Head of House. He was acutely aware of how much tutoring he'd been getting from Snape, who just happened to be the Head of Slytherin, which as it turned out was the rival House to Gryffindor. Which was Harry's House. "I'm here to talk to Professor Lupin, if he's available," Harry admitted.

McGonnagall gestured to Lupin, who had been leaning on the wall of Snape's severely underfurnished office with an expression of terrible foreboding on his face. He lifted his expression to mere apprehension as Harry approached him.

"Hallo, Harry," Lupin said. "Good year so far?"

"Er, yes," Harry confessed, perplexed. "Aside from my best friend getting Petrified by a creature which was most likely instrumental in the development of Voldemort, and is probably being controlled by a wanted criminal who knew my father."

"And he's your godfather, that's very traumatic as well," Lupin told him.

"_Gbuh_?"

"_Lupin!_" Flitwick and McGonnagall turned on Harry's favorite Defense teacher - also in his top three for teachers he'd ever had for any subject, just behind Karla Figginschreiber, who'd been in charge of him back in first grade and hadn't been mean _at all_ - with shock and concern.

"He ought to know," Lupin told them.

"The Minister of Magic _personally_ forbade us from telling him," McGonnagall objected.

Lupin shrugged. "So I won't tell him again."

Harry noticed a single twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes.

"This isn't really the place, though," Lupin continued, indicating Snape's office. "We're a man down, and bless me if I know how I'm going to manage without his help."

"Help?" Harry inquired, not quite following the conversation.

Lupin winced. "With my... rare, tropical disease."

Harry was suspicious of this rather obvious coverup, but couldn't imagine what Lupin might be trying to hide. Secret slumber parties? Addiction to Lightening Liquid? Pie? _The fact that Sirius Black is my Godfather somehow? _

"So, Harry, what did you come here for? Your Patronus charm is definitely up to snuff - I've been taking notes on your style, to be honest."

"Hagrid told me," Harry began, still trying to process all the sudden revelations and carefully not-quite-exposed mysteries, "that you and Black were friends."

"Ah," said Lupin. "Perhaps we should take this discussion to a more _private_ venue. I'm sure I can discuss arrangements for my... condition... with Dumbledore later tonight."

Harry shrugged. "Mostly I'm trying to stop the Basilisk."

"Your Patronus?" Lupin asked, momentarily confused. "I've heard of a few cases where wizards have changed their Patronus, but that was usually because of a major epiphany, or a dramatically traumatic event. I don't think you're due for either-"

Harry interrupted him. "The one that's been Petrifying people?"

Several eyebrows raised around the room.

"Hermione narrowed it down," Harry explained. "Salazar Slytherin was very serpent-oriented, and was also a Parseltongue," _like me_, "and I'm pretty sure that whoever Petrified Ron last night stole his wand. So whoever it is probably didn't _have_ a wand, meaning it's not ancient spells that are Petrifying people. That, plus snake, plus centuries lost to Wizardkind, means probably a Basilisk."

Dumbledore nodded. "Well deduced, Harry. However, I must advise you that the proper term for one who speaks the language of Serpents is, in point of fact, a Parsel_mouth_."

"Oh," responded Harry. "Er, sorry."

Dumbledore twinkled at him. "Not to worry," he assured Harry. "It was an innocent mistake. Now, I must be sure to give Miss Granger at least a thousand points for puzzling out the nature of Salazar Slytherin's legacy..."

Flitwick and Sprout, noticing the Headmaster's blatant favoritism towards Gryffindor, objected. While they were distracted, Harry turned back to Lupin, explaining further. "If it's Black, he got into the Chamber without a wand. That tells me _either_ he has special powers of some kind, _or_ the Chamber doesn't need magic to open, _or_ he's got someone helping him."

"I can't imagine who might-"

"You knew him, before. You were friends with my father, and Black, and someone called Peter, and they were all really good at navigating Hogwarts. If anybody knows what Black can do, you do. Please," Harry pleaded. "Help me save Hogwarts. I _know_ I can stop the Basilisk, I've been practicing my Parseltongue for _months_, let me be _useful_!"

Lupin stared at him. For at least three minutes, Lupin just stared at Harry, taking in his desperation, his fear, his earnest commitment to saving the people he loved. Harry lost track of time, waiting for Lupin to respond. Flitwick and Sprout reached an agreement with Dumbledore. McGonnagall said nothing at all.

"Alright, Harry," Lupin said, after all other conversation had died. "Alright. I'll tell you about Black. But only you," he qualified, sweeping a glance over the other teachers assembled in the room.

"As you wish, Remus," Dumbledore acceded. "Come, Sybil, I'll see you back to your tower."

* * *

When they had gone, Remus Lupin sat down in Snape's only chair. Harry charmed the back of his robes to float and sat on them.

"That's pretty clever, Harry - probably more comfortable than old Grease-head's chair, too."

"Who?"

Lupin grimaced. "Nevermind. You look so much like James - it's hard to forget the nicknames we had for Snape, back in the day."

_Not much of a nickname,_ Harry thought. "Have you considered Incarnate Peril?"

"What?"

"As a nickname for Snape," Harry explained. "I think it's pretty accurate."

Lupin started to chuckle, then considered the name for a moment. "You know, you've got a point," he admitted. "Although at the moment, Humorless Stiff might be more appropriate."

It was Harry's turn to express confusion again, it seemed. "Stiff? He's always seemed more _still_ than _stiff_, to me."

Lupin grimaced again. "Harry," he began, then paused, looking for the right words. "Harry, Snape's been Petrified."

"No."

Lupin almost raised an eyebrow - Harry could see it quiver - but instead said "I'm quite serious, Harry. I came here to check on the potion he's been making me, and I found him Petrified. Looked like he'd seen a ghost. No," Lupin corrected himself, "that happened every day. Looked like he'd seen Sirius, I suppose." He sighed.

Harry couldn't think.

Snape was competent. Snape _was competence_. Nothing rattled him, nothing startled him, Snape was _unshakeable_. Snape was pretty much the scariest wizard Harry had ever seen, and Harry had seen Voldemort possessing Quirrel. Snape _could not be Petrified_.

"Harry?"

"Yes," Harry responded, automatically. "But no." This could not be happening - Harry had a moment of sympathy for Ron, remembering his reaction to Ginny joining Ravenclaw, then remembered that Ron had been Petrified just this morning - _this is not the kind of world I live in_, thought Harry.

"Harry, you're worrying me. Are you alright?"

_How could this happen? Did I get sucked into a parallel universe where Snape is good at potions and bad at everything else? Is Black really that sneaky? Does Lupin have the answers I need to go stop his old friend? Does Lupin still think of Black as a friend after Black killed a bunch of people and went crazy? _

Harry felt a piece of chocolate being pressed into his hand, and brought it to his mouth reflexively. It tasted like sanity on a summer day. "Thanks, Lupin."

Lupin had his wand out, and more chocolate in his off hand. "You drifted off there. What happened to you, Harry?"

_My assumptions about power and safety were challenged_, thought Harry. "I didn't see it coming."

Lupin smiled. "Neither did I," he confessed. "For all his social awkwardness, Snape has a tremendous force of will, and he's scary. I'm surprised he didn't manage to Stun his attacker, at least."

"Would that work on a Basilisk?"

"Probably not," Lupin admitted. "But if it was Black controlling it, he'd probably want to see Snape's face - not sure how he managed that without the Basilisk seeing him, to be honest." He pondered for a moment. "Probably some cleverly-arranged mirrors," he decided.

"So Black is scarily sneaky, can put one over on Snape, and has control of a Basilisk," Harry summarized. "I'm starting to think I _won't_ be able to stop this."

Lupin smiled again. "Sometimes courage is doing what's right, even when we haven't the strength to see it through ourselves," he recited.

"Who said that?"

"Me."

* * *

"So Black can turn into a giant fluffy dog?"

"Right," Lupin confirmed. "He had a good reason for learning how, back in school."

Harry nodded, knowing that meant 'don't ask what the reason was'. "And you both knew the secret passages better than FredandGeorge."

Lupin nodded. "We might even have found all of them," he confided.

"Did you ever find the heart of the castle?"

Lupin pondered for a moment. "No," he concluded, "though we did find a large room full of quills and sofas, once."

Harry chuckled. "What?"

"Never did figure out what that one was for," Lupin told him. "Good thing we found it, though, we were exhausted. And we all had papers overdue."

Harry chuckled again. "Okay, enough. Did he know Parseltongue?"

"No," Lupin stated with certainty. "None of us did, the last time a student could speak Parseltongue was about, say, fifty years ago-"

"-when the Chamber was opened and Voldemort was a student here," Harry confirmed.

"Right. Voldemort himself was a Parselmouth, you know, maybe there's a connection there."

Harry nodded. "Probably. Though where _I_ get it from, I haven't a clue."

Lupin wrote that down for later research. "Anything else you need to know?"

Harry shook his head. "Although, do you know if Black worked for Voldemort? People keep assuming that, but where is it written that all the bad wizards are on the same side?"

"I was afraid you'd ask that," Lupin said with a sigh. "Are you sure you want to know this?"

Harry nodded.

"Then here's the story of Sirius' betrayal." Lupin took a deep breath, steeling himself for the revisiting of long-buried psychological trauma for the second time that night. "Sirius Black - who we've already established is your Godfather-"

"You say _is_," Harry noted.

"Yes, _is_. That was never revoked." Lupin re-gathered his thoughts. "He was also the Secret Keeper for your parents' house. Nobody could find them, nobody could even get _close_ to their house, unless _he_ told the secret."

"But..." Harry felt a need for a deep breath of his own. "Somebody _did_. _Voldemort_ did."

Lupin closed his eyes in affirmation, too full of regret to nod. "Sirius told him. Voldemort wanted to kill _you_, I still don't know why, and _Sirius told him where to find you_. Peter..." Lupin swallowed hard, then reached for the chocolate for the third time since he'd started telling Harry about Black.

"Peter?"

"Peter Pettigrew, our _other_ friend. James and Sirius were always the leaders of our troupe, much like you and Ron," he recalled. "Peter was usually in the background, listening and learning, always very quiet. People remembered Peter, but they never remembered anything _about_ him. But," Lupin sighed _again_, "he was our friend. A strange one, but then, aren't those the best kind?"

"Yes," Harry affirmed, all his friends springing to mind in their strangeness and wonder.

"Peter went after Sirius, the night... the night you defeated Voldemort. Sirius killed him."

Harry waited for the rest of the story.

"I lost three friends that night," Lupin whispered, half to himself. "James and Peter to Death... Sirius to Evil..."

Harry handed him the last piece of chocolate.

"Thanks, Harry... I hope what I've told you will help. I'll see you in a week or so, when classes start again. Found another Boggart last Tuesday, you know," he laughed dryly. "Not that a Boggart measures up to Dementors and a Basilisk."

Harry wasn't sure what to say. "Professor - er, Lupin," he stammered, looking the broken man in the eyes. Harry stopped, seeing a frightened, wild creature, lost in the world of its birth, trapped in the eyes of Professor Remus Lupin. "Er," Harry stuttered, forgetting what he was going to say. "Er, we care about you." _Right._ "All of us, the students, I mean, you're the best Defense Professor we've had here in... _ever_."

A hint of a smile quivered at the corners of Lupin's mouth. It hadn't reached his eyes, though.

"Which isn't saying much," Harry admitted. "But you're probably the favorite teacher in _Hogwarts_, too."

Lupin sighed. "Alright, Harry. Don't do anything rash, I'll be fine right here."

"Right." Harry picked up his notes, planning to head straight for Hermione - and then, wherever it might be hidden, the Chamber.


	28. Chapter 8: Worse

Book Two

Being a continued exploration of the differences in Mr. Potter's life pursuant to his understanding Victorian flower language at age 11.

Harry Potter, all related characters, and the original Harry Potter narrative are properties of J. K. Rowling.

Chapter 8

Worse

Hermione was almost as shocked as Harry had been when she heard of Snape's Petrification. Once she'd recovered, they (with a little help from Ron's conspiracy board) went over Lupin's stories.

"I'm worried, Harry," she told him. "Even with half the school empty for Christmas holidays, and everyone using mirrors, it's too risky - someone might see it face to face, and just _die_."

_Right, I'd almost forgotten that the eyes can kill._ With all the Petrification happening, and nobody dead, it hadn't seemed relevant. _Although Myrtle died to the Basilisk, back when Voldemort was a student_.

"Harry?"

"Right, sorry, thinking about Basilisks," Harry apologized. "That reminds me, Fred gave me something when I went to find Lupin." He pulled out the Airsight Goggles.

"What _are_ those?"

Harry held the goggles in reverence, as though they were a sacred relic instead of hastily pasted-together feathers and lenses with a bit of magic and hope keeping them operational. "These," he explained, "are Weasley Original Air-Sight Goggles. Handcrafted by Fred and possibly also George, they let you see the flow of air and wind. And they block all normal vision while doing so."

Hermione smiled. "_Great_. That sounds _very_ useful, you should wear them constantly."

Harry frowned. "One problem," he added, slipping on the goggles. "I don't know what the air currents _mean_."

"Oh."

"Yeah." He handed her the goggles.

"I see what you mean," Hermione observed, waving her hand in front of her goggled face. "It would probably take _hours_ to figure these out."

Harry had expected it to take days. There was a reason he respected Hermione. "You take them," he said. "You'll get more good from them anyways."

"Now that's settled, where can we find the Chamber?"

* * *

"So you think it's near where Myrtle was killed?"

Harry nodded. "I think the Basilisk -"

"HARRY! HERMIONE!"

They turned to the common room's entrance, where Colin Creevey had just fallen in.

_Oh, no, not him again_, thought Harry in a moment of uncharacteristically uncharitable attitude.

"You'll never believe this, the Heir's got _Snape-_"

"We know," Harry told him.

"-_and Lup-_ you know already?" Colin's exited terror deflated, and he pulled out his ever-present camera.

_Wait, did he just-_ "Lupin? _Lupin?_"

Colin nodded. "Just now, Dumbledore found him in Snape's office with a piece of chocolate in his hand."

_No no no no no no no no_ -

"Petrified?" Hermione asked, her voice scarcely audible.

"Yep, both of 'em. Lupin's all sad and Snape's got this look all surprised and angry and determined and not moving. I got pictures!"

Colin always had pictures. Harry gave him a Sickle for each.

"He's right where I left him," Harry murmured. For all he knew, Lupin had been Petrified the moment Harry had walked out of Snape's office. "I was right _there_, he was _fine,_ if I'd just stayed there I might have _saved_ him-"

"Harry," Hermione said, her hand on his elbow. Harry noticed his arms were shaking.

"I just - Ron, and Snape, and Lupin, and _who else?_"

* * *

Ginny.

* * *

"MYRTLE!"

Myrtle poked her head out from a nearby stall. "Ooh, Harry," she purred.

_How does a ghost purr? Humans can't purr._

"What can I do for _you_?" Myrtle asked him. "Maybe you want me to take care of Sparkles for you?"

"Myrtle, we need to find the Chamber of Secrets. I'm sick of my friends getting Petrified, it needs to stop. Please, show us where you were when you died."

Myrtle blinked, which was a _fascinating_ sight on a ghost, and doubly so when the ghost was wearing thick reading glasses, as Myrtle was at that moment. "Oh, you brought a _friend_. Hello, Eyes."

Hermione had been practicing with the Airsight Goggles, Harry leading her along - she wasn't running into walls anymore, but she still had some trouble locating Harry when he wasn't talking to her. "Hello, Myrtle," she responded, ignoring Myrtle's attempted antagonism.

"Myrtle, please," Harry begged.

Myrtle tipped her head to one side, placing a finger on her chin in an exaggerated display of affected thought. "What's in it for me, Harry? Will you go to your death against the Basilisk, and keep me _company_ for all eternity?"

"Not the plan, no."

"Maybe you're trying to get me closure," Myrtle hissed, glaring at Hermione. "Maybe you want to get _rid_ of old, ugly Myrtle."

"I'll come have crumpets with you every second Sunday until I leave Hogwarts," Harry promised. "If you'll help us find out where the Basilisk that killed you came from."

Myrtle smiled. "Bring Sparkles," she commanded.

* * *

"_Aaugh_," cried Harry. He'd been looking for a grating, an opening, a secret lever, _anything_ that might open a passage for a giant magical snake to pass through. So far, though, nothing.

Myrtle was pretending to massage his shoulders. It was a _very_ odd sensation, and didn't help at all.

"Harry," Hermione called from the door. "I think I've got something."

"Oh?"

"I ran a detail-finder charm over this room, about half an hour ago," Hermione told him, "and it didn't come up with anything out of the ordinary. So I tried a comparison spell on all the stalls, tiles, pipes, sinks, faucets... it didn't find any differences either."

Harry hung his head. "Hermione, how does this help?"

Hermione smiled at him. "I remembered something. This room - you weren't here, but this is the room where I beat the troll back in first year."

Harry raised his left eyebrow. For the sake of humour, which had been in rather short supply, he used his left hand to accomplish his.

Myrtle floated up to Hermione, upside-down, and studied her. "Yes, yes, you're her alright. You tried to use the floor to catch it, didn't you?"

Hermione nodded, still smiling.

"You almost _died_."

"I didn't see you helping," Hermione replied, her smile a bit less lively. "The point is, I _couldn't_ transmute the floor."

"Right, the castle's weird like that," Harry agreed.

"But I _could _transmute the stalls, _and _the floor in the third-floor corridor was easily Transmuted," Hermione reminded him. "So I ran an inverted plotting charm on the room."

Harry waited for the explanation of what that meant.

"What does that mean?" Myrtle asked, unfamiliar with Hermione's tendency to explain things _without_ being prompted.

"It means," Hermione told her, smiling at full power again, "that I used magic to look at everything in the room."

"You did that before, Eyebrows," Myrtle reminded her. "What's so special about a reverse charm?"

"Instead of telling me what it finds, it tells me what it _doesn't_ find," Hermione exulted. "And it _didn't_ find a small carving on the faucet of this sink over here, Harry."

Harry waited for the relevance of that statement.

"Which is interesting, because there _is_ a small carving of a snake on the faucet of this sink over here, Harry," Hermione finished.

"Coming," Harry told her.

* * *

As the floor slid away, revealing a large-mouthed pipe with no Basilisk staring out of it, Harry smiled. Then he checked his plan.

_Find Basilisk. Control Basilisk. Find Black. Don't get killed. Subdue Black with _Dormire_ or the Full-Body Bind. Bring Black to justice. Don't look at the Basilisk. Maybe have Sparkles dance with it or something. _

Hermione had been muttering a similar list, with a few crucial differences - "_Find the Basilisk. Let Harry control the Basilisk. Failure point: if Harry looks at the Basilisk, he'll die. Don't let Harry die. Find Sirius Black. Failure point: if Sirius Black wants us dead, we're dead. Don't let Sirius want us dead. Failure point-_"

Harry hoped she'd come up with backup plans for those failure points.

"Ready?"

"Ready."

"Remember, Harry, if you die you have to be a ghost and come visit me."

Harry sighed. "Still not the plan, Myrtle. I'll keep it in mind if I see big yellow eyes, though." _Come to think of it, do Basilisks usually leave ghosts, or is that more of a wizard-by-wizard thing?_

Harry and Hermione jumped into the darkness, Hermione ready to cast a Windfeather spell to slow their fall in case Salazar Slytherin had neglected to plant a cushion - such as Devil's Snare - at the base of the pipe. Harry was ready to cast _Lumen Maxima_ in case Slytherin _had_ planted Devil's Snare.

They were both completely unprepared for the magical wards that flung them back out of the pipe.

* * *

"_ow,_" said Harry.

"_Aagh_," said Hermione.

"Aww, you're still alive," said Myrtle.

Hermione picked herself up, carefully, and _yelped_ when she saw a Dementor floating in the doorway.

"_Expecto Patronum!_"

"And _hello_, Sparkles," Myrtle crooned, hugging Harry's Patronus. She stuck her ghostly tongue out at the Dementor.

It _hissed_. Harry was beginning to suspect that Dementors had no other form of communication.

"Er, Steve?"

The Dementor hissed in a non-affirmatory fashion.

_Ah, so it's like Vincent and the Looming_. "Not-Steve."

Hissing of the non-dissenting variety.

"Here to protect us from the Basilisk? Not this one, the other one."

Hissing of the third kind again.

"It doesn't seem to be here at the moment. Do you know where it is?"

The Dementor seemed to be looking at Myrtle. It hissed in a manner indicating agreement.

"Can you, I don't know, point in the general direction of the Basilisk that Petrifies people?"

Not-Steve pointed at the slowly closing entrance to the Chamber of Secrets.

"Ah, see, that's fine then. We're all right here, it's in there, pretty sure it can't get out without going past us." Harry blinked. "Unless, of course, Salazar Slytherin built the Chamber with more than one entrance and exit. That would make more sense than putting the only entrance in the ladies' loo."

The Dementor floated in a generally concurrent fashion. Then it hissed, which Harry couldn't follow.

"Right, well, nothing _we _can do here. Do you want to try going down into the Chamber?"

Probably a yes, though who could really tell with hissing incarnations of death?

"In you go, then," Harry told it, pulling Hermione - whose otter Patronus was curled on her shoulders contentedly, basically doing nothing - out of the way. Sparkles hissed at the entrance as he made room for Not-Steve, and it stopped closing.

Not-Steve floated into the pipe.

Not-Steve flew out of the pipe, into the wall, and onto the floor. It hissed in a way that resembled groaning.

"Sparkles, could you carry Not-Steve out of the castle, please? And try not to look at any of the Dementors, they seem to think they can stop a living Basilisk and I'd rather have their help than not."

"_As you wish, Master_," Sparkles replied. Myrtle was still hugging him as he slid towards the door.

"Have fun, Myrtle," Harry told her.

"Mmmmm," she replied. Harry suspected she might once have been a Slytherin, with the way she seemed to love the Serpent.

* * *

Dumbledore was gone.

"The Headmaster has gone to try to keep Hogwarts open for the foreseeable future," McGonnagall explained. "Which is no mean feat even for _him_. I expect he'll return by the end of your holidays."

Harry nodded. "We've found the Chamber of Secrets, is all," he told her. "But we can't get in, there's a spell that throws us out again when we try. There might be other entrances, somewhere, but we don't know where, and they might have deadlier defenses."

McGonnagall gaped at him. "You- of course, you." She started writing a letter, presumably to Dumbledore. "You are forbidden to enter the Chamber of Secrets, Mr. Potter. Your life is far too valuable to spend even on perils such as these."

"Bu-"

"No buts, Mr. Potter. Dumbledore has instructed that you remain safe, and safe you shall remain."

"Er-"

"And no back-talk," McGonnagall told him. "Now, do you have any further questions before you return to your dormitories?"

"A few," Harry stated. "First, did you know that the Dementors think they can stop a living Basilisk?"

McGonnagall nodded. "They tried to tell us as much on Halloween."

"I've got Sparkles routing them from the castle - they're not good against Patronus Basilisks. But I've told him not to look at them, since they want to help against the other Basilisk."

McGonnagall looked at him, then started writing again.

"The entrance we found is in the girl's lavatory, the one Myrtle haunts, where Hermione fought a troll last year."

McGonnagall nodded tiredly.

"And, er, I'm wondering how safe I _can_ be when Black - and whoever's helping him, he didn't _used_ to be a Parselmouth - knows the castle better than Fred and George do, and is sneaky enough to get Snape."

McGonnagall sighed. "Probably at least slightly safer _here_ than you would be in the Chamber of Secrets," she suggested. "Classes resume in nine days, Mr. Potter. We'll bring in some experts to work on those wards for you."

"I'll have to open the gate, though," Harry told her. "Remember, it only listens to Parseltongue."

It was not a good day to be Minerva McGonnagall.

* * *

No Ministry Experts were willing to brave the Chamber of Secrets, but Dumbledore managed to pull in a few skilled spellbreakers. Bill Weasley, Xing Charleson, and Dumbledore himself intended to disenchant the wards in the pipe as soon as they could all return to Hogwarts. Hermione planned to beat them to it.

"Neville, what are our resources?"

Neville consulted his list, which was secretly Francis the Boggart. Neville had decided to be afraid of a list of all their resources, with annotations of things they couldn't possibly get that would easily solve everything.

"Well, we're out of roosters. Hagrid's tried to get more, but they all end up dead by sunrise."

Hermione muttered something unrepeatable.

"And we haven't got a Holocaust cloak, which would probably keep the Basilisk from biting us."

"Gryffindor," swore Malfoy. "Greg's vanished, Vincent's been called home to his mother, and Crabbe Senior can't even teach him new moves because _my_ father has _his _father off on a long-term secret mission somewhere. What _do_ we have?"

"Four callow youths of incomparable skill," Neville told him. "Masters of Knowledge, Terror, Subtlety, and whatever it is Harry does."

"Patronuses, currently," Harry supplied. "And I'm two for two against Voldemort, although I don't think I really earned that yet."

Hermione didn't comment, absorbed as she was in her research on breaking persistent Flinging Hexes remotely.

"Wait," Harry said, stepping away from the table with his eyes shut. "Let me add a few major resources." They'd holed up in the Great Hall, which was one of the few areas in Hogwarts that didn't have Dementors floating about. With most students gone for the holidays, and about a dozen Petrified in the past two days, most of those that remained had holed up in the Library or their own House common room. The Castle-Elves obliged them by delivering meals directly.

Harry took a small tin of itching powder from his pocket, and balanced it on his head. "Oh dear, I seem to have a full tin of itching powder on my head," he called. "I hope noFredandGeorge comes and pranks me with it at this opportune moment!"

"Now what fun would that be?" Fred asked him.

Harry smiled. Then he realized that he felt extremely itchy, and excused himself from discussion to go magic himself clean again.

"Rather a lot, it seems," George noted.

"So what can we do for you scudders?"

* * *

"-a full set of Airsight goggles, which will probably get us killed if they stop working; two human tempests; about five Dementors that might try to eat us if our Patroni drop; Luna Lovegood, who's more likely to have a cup of tea with Black than actually hex him; half-finished notes on the proper way to break the curse that guards the pipes. We're still missing Dumbledore, our own personal army, night-vision goggles, basilisk venom antidotes, roosters, Mandrake draught, theme music, the Elder Wand, and a clue," Neville finished reading from Francis. He then tucked the cooperative Boggart back into his pocket.

_I wonder what that Boggart is really capable of_, Harry wondered. _Is it like the Hat, reflecting the minds of those who see it?_

"Not inviting your half-mountain friend, Harry?" Draco inquired.

Harry shook his head. "Hagrid's keeping the grounds in order. If he gets Petrified, or bitten, or poisoned, or cursed in a way that isn't easily reversed, monsters are going to come pouring out of the Forest by the end of the month. Also he said he wasn't coming, something about the passage being too small."

Draco sniggered.

_Hermione should be back with the other half of that research by now,_ Harry thought. "Neville, any word on Hermione?"

Neville shook his head. "The Twins are due in two minutes, though," he allowed. "They'll probably know what's keeping her."

Harry nodded glumly. Even though she was using her own set of Airsights to avoid Basilisk stares, Hermione still had to thread past Dementors, Peeves, and the castle itself. Peeves had stolen her first set of Airsights the previous day, and she'd been rattled until she'd gotten a good book in her hands.

"So, if we get down there, how do we deal with a Basilisk, Black, and an unknown number of evil wizards?"

Draco sighed. "Look, all the old Death Eaters are either in Azkaban or friends of my father-"

"-or Sirius Black," Neville interjected.

Draco scowled. "Or him, yes. And since Black _isn't_ friends with my father, and Father hasn't sent any of his friends to Hogwarts this year-"

"Unless that's Crabbe Senior's secret mission," Harry supplied.

"Ridiculous," scoffed Draco. "The man hasn't got a subtle bone in his body. He's like Mr. Loom if Mr. Loom didn't have _style_." Draco smiled as the rest of them showed a clear understanding of his meaning. "So the only evil wizards you'll find down there are raw recruits, which any of us can put down with a quick hex, and Black himself."

"Who you ought to leave to us," George told them.

"Seeing as we're the professionals," Fred finished.

Harry turned to them. "Good, you're here. Where's Hermione?"

"Hermione's up in the Hospital wing," said Fred. "Which, since the only blokes there are Madam Pomfrey and a bunch of Petrified stiffs, should tell you that Black caught on to her plan."

Harry despaired.

"Good news," George added, "is we've got her research. Pretty sure we can make this work in less than a day, which is good -"

"-because at the rate things are going Black's going to destroy this school by morning."


	29. Chapter 9: Worst

Book Two

Being a continued exploration of the differences in Mr. Potter's life pursuant to his understanding Victorian flower language at age 11.

Harry Potter, all related characters, and the original Harry Potter narrative are properties of J. K. Rowling.

Chapter 9

Worst

"-because at the rate things are going Black's going to destroy this school by morning."

Harry abandoned despair for fear. "What?"

Fred handed him a photograph. It showed a very finely-wrought message overlaying the original 'the chamber has opened' scrawl. The new message was clean-cut lettering, almost machined in its precision, with a metallic glint on each letter. Harry had to focus quite hard to stop admiring the beautiful lettering and start worrying about the message it bore.

THESERPENTWILLRISETOCONSUMETHEIMPURE

ATDAWNALLSHALLENDANDANEWWORLDARISE

ABANDONHOPEALLFOOLSWHODARETODREAM

THETRUTHOFDEATHAWAITSYOURFEARFULEYES

"That's... odd," Harry decided. The message was similar in tone to Voldemort's evil plan - destroy the corrupted world, replace it with a world of his own creation where everyone he doesn't like is dead.

Draco took the picture. "Sounds like Blood Purist standard to me," he told them. "Get rid of the impure, embrace the bright new dawn, crush those that dare to compare themselves to old established families like mine..." He noticed every Gryffindor in the room staring at him. "What? We're just _better_ than you, alright? I don't have to prove that."

Harry felt a bit disturbed. He also missed Ron, who would have chimed in with a -

"Shut up, Malfoy-"

-by now. _Wait, who said that?_

"Back at you, Weasley," Draco said to Fred. "I just said I don't need to prove it; I've got no intention of crushing the unworthy beneath my perfectly-polished heel. They'll gladly do it themselves for the pleasure of my approving smile, you see."

"There's definitely air coming out of you," George told him. "But all I hear is _my family isn't any older than yours, Mister Weasley_."

Draco glared at him, and said nothing. This was probably very wise of him, since Greg had been found Petrified that morning and could no longer weave words of wonder and legal exemption.

"Right," Harry announced. "That gives us... seven hours to learn Hermione's wardbreaker, use it, find Black, stop him, find the Basilisk that isn't mine, make it mine, stop it-"

"Have I mentioned how unfair it is that _Harry_ gets to be a Parselmouth?" Draco opined.

"-and have everything wrapped up neat as teatime before dawn," Harry concluded. "Did I miss anything?"

"Yeah, don't _die_," Draco told him. "Seriously, it's like I'm in a room full of Gryffindors."

* * *

It had taken Luna nearly two hours to decide that she could manage Hermione's spell. Harry had just been relieved that she wasn't Petrified. From the look of things, none of the students had been Petrified since the message had appeared.

Harry was worried. The first message had accompanied the first Petrification, and he still wasn't sure that some reclusive teacher in a secret wing of the castle hadn't caught the Basilisk's reflected eye.

He was also wondering why Black, a notorious convicted murderer who had already escaped from maximum-security for-the-rest-of-your-very-short-life Wizard prison, hadn't killed any of his victims. _Maybe it wasn't Black after all? Maybe whoever sprung him from Azkaban won't let him kill people? _Harry shivered. Black was more than capable of terrorizing Hogwarts for years; he didn't want to _think_ about someone that could control Black that completely.

Luna kept puzzling over Hermione's research notes, and had borrowed Draco's broom to help her keep up with their much longer strides. Every few minutes she'd make an intrigued sound, or mention some obscure magical rumour that Hermione had summarily proven or destroyed.

They had just reached the Chamber, a small force of Dementors - including Steve, who had somehow managed to recover from Sparkles' Gaze in just a few months, and Not-Steve, who Harry could almost understand - trailing just out of reach of their various Patronuses. Not-Steve had indicated through much unintelligible hissing that Harry was likely to be eaten if they met him without a Patronus, despite their determination to not kill students.

When Harry had asked why, Not-Steve's answer had been _completely_ incomprehensible. Harry wished he knew how McGonnagall and Dumbledore managed to understand Dementors, sometimes.

"Harry," Fred said, halting the party just outside Myrtle's loo. From the sound of it, she was humming to herself. _Does she think it's Sunday? Wait, it is Sunday. But it's not the second Sunday,_ Harry assured himself. _We can still finish this before sunrise_.

"_Harry_," George insisted.

"What?"

Fred handed him the Map. "_Look at the hospital wing_."

Harry looked.

Harry panicked. "This can't be happening, it's not _dawn_ yet, he's _breaking his promise_-"

"Not that he actually made a promise," Draco reminded him.

"His _implied_ promise, then. This isn't how bad guys are supposed to work!"

Draco laughed at him. "What then, Potter?"

_Bad sign, Draco's using my surname._

"You think every villain is going to be an _honorable wizard_ like my father? You think they'll _keep their promises?_" Draco scoffed. "The bad guys are _bad_, Harry. They lie, they cheat, they steal, they do _anything_ to win. And winning, to them? It's us _losing_. Losing our lives, our futures, _everything forever_."

Neville checked his pocket.

"I-" Harry choked out.

Draco didn't stop. "The bad guy in that Chamber? The one that's been Petrifying everyone and their brother?"

"Yeah, too bad about Percy," Fred noted.

"He's _killed_ before. Think about that, Harry - you're going down there to face a _murderer._"

Harry realized he'd actually done that before. "I've actually done that before, last year, Volde-"

"_The Dark Lord was different_, Harry. The Dark Lord killed by _choice_. He didn't take lives because they were _convenient_."

"Actually-"

"Yes, Luna, he had minions who were terrible people and killed for sport. But he? He himself? The Dark Lord?"

Luna hesitated.

"_He_ only killed for _deeply personal reasons_. And to destroy his opposition in the heat of battle."

"I don't see what-"

"_The difference_," Draco hissed, "is that _Sirius Black_ killed _twelve bystanders_ along with his enemy. They weren't fighting him, they weren't a threat, they were just _there_. Even the Dark Lord would have just kidnapped them or Obliviated them or controlled their minds or cursed them all."

"Rather a lot of options there, Draco," Neville told him.

"I know, he was a terrible person, but he at least had _honor_," Draco grumbled. "So, Harry, what's wrong with the map?"

Harry had been staring at it while Draco ranted. "There's nobody in the Hospital wing," he whispered. He wanted to scream the words, but couldn't find the strength.

"So?"

FredandGeorge returned from wherever they'd gone. "It's for real, Harry, they're all gone."

"What about Madam Pomfrey?"

Draco looked between them in confusion.

"Oh, _no_," Neville breathed.

"Draco," Harry intoned, heavy of heart, "everyone who was Petrified was in there."

Realization broke slowly over the scion of the ancient and most noble house of Malfoy. Watching the crest of the emotion wash through his face was a study in architectural humanity. Harry didn't even know what that was supposed to mean, but it sounded deep in his mind, and he stuck with it.

"_No..."_

"Even Snape," Harry confirmed.

Draco looked at his companions. "We're doomed," he informed them.

"I wonder if they've been eaten," Luna said, airily.

* * *

"McGonnagall's off the map, too," George confirmed. "Not even in that secret chamber where she hides the firewhisky, so unless she's off to Hogsmeade for more while Dumbledore's still on his way, Black got her."

Luna floated up from the pipe's entrance on Draco's Nimbus 2001, her hair floating about her in a static haze. "I think I've managed to open the curse," she told them. "But there's an awful lot of energy in the air. Do you suppose there might be Nargles in the chamber?"

Harry shrugged. Five Dementors, led by Steve and Not-Steve, dove into the pipe. No Dementors were flung back out. "Looks clear, everyone," he said, feeling a bit redundant. "Remember, use those goggles to keep from dying, keep your Patroni active, and keep in sight of everybody else. _Do not split up_, I'm looking at you, FredandGeorge."

They nodded, expressions grim.

_What I wouldn't give for Ron right now,_ Harry wished. _Or Hermione. Or Snape. Or another day to prepare. _

"Right. Sparkles, lead the way. Myrtle, I hope to see you soon for crumpets. Luna, you haven't had a chance to learn the goggles. Stay here and look pretty."

Luna complied without even trying. Harry still didn't know if the silver cloud around her was her Patronus or just a bunch of glitter, but either way the Dementors hadn't bothered her since she'd first conjured it.

"Twin Flames of the Immortal Laughter, you're our only hope against Black. Get him."

Fred and George nodded.

"Neville, do whatever you can do. Try not to read the Necronomicon, though."

Neville looked like he wanted to ask what the Necronomicon was.

"Draco -"

"Look cool, be awesome, don't get anyone killed. I know the drill."

"You're out of minions again," Harry told him.

Draco grinned. "Let's make some history," he suggested.

* * *

Harry managed to cushion their fall, which was convenient as the only thing at the bottom of the pipe had been bones. Several centuries worth of animal bones, from moles to snakes to bug things Harry couldn't recognize. _Sure are big, though_.

There were three or four different tunnels leading away from the bone room. Fred checked the Map, just in case Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs were secret pseudonyms for the Founders, but it didn't show the Chamber at all. Harry wasn't surprised - even if the map _was_ a Hogwarts treasure, Slytherin wouldn't have put his secret legacy in a map just _anyone_ could use.

"Hey, Fred, can I see the map?"

"Here," Fred told him. "We'll be wanting it back when we make it out alive, though."

"Sure," Harry agreed. He focused on the map, and his best guess of their current location. _"Show me the Chamber of Secrets_," he hissed.

"Was that Parseltongue again?" George asked him.

Harry nodded. "Didn't work, though. Either Slytherin didn't put the Chamber in here, or this map wasn't made by the founders." He handed the map back to Fred, who was rolling his eyes. "This way, I think," Harry declared, picking the tunnel that seemed most secretive.

* * *

The Twins had vanished by the time Harry, Draco and Neville had reached the next chamber. It was rather disappointing, really, with just the one large metal door and its fancy snake motif. "_Open to my command, and close behind me,_" Harry told the door. _"Let none pass who do not speak the word 'confabulate'." _

The doors opened for him, then snapped shut when Draco tried to pass through.

"Ah, sorry, Draco," Harry apologized. "Er, say '_confabulate_'."

"I can't say that, it's all _hissy_," Draco complained.

"Er." _Didn't think of that._ "It's, uh, _hsah_, _shshehs, ihsassha, hhahhe_, _rhhe_, _ssehi_."

Draco stared at him. "Sa, shez, issa, haha, re, see," he attempted.

"_Confabulate_," Harry directed.

"_Pants_," Draco attempted.

"No, you said _Pants_, you needed to say _confabulate_, there's no _hsehrer_ in _confabulate_."

"Why do I need to say _turquoise_?" Draco demanded.

"Do I need to say hissy hissy hiss?" inquired Neville.

Harry sighed. _"Disregard the order to open only to those who speak the word 'confabulate',"_ he told the door. _"Open only to these here with me now, and any person with red hair who speaks the word '_open_'. Now open up." _

The doors opened again.

* * *

Draco's viper Patronus slithered along the floor, while Neville's formless cloud of persistent mist floated along in his shadow. Sparkles brought up the rear, blocking the entire passageway. Harry was still getting used to the Airsight Goggles, even after hours of practice, but his Patronus kept telling him which way the walls were and where to step carefully. Neville seemed to be having no trouble at all navigating blindfolded, and Draco had elected to skip the Goggles in favor of being stylish. Harry really hoped that wouldn't end with a dead Draco.

Their first clue that something was wrong came when Neville's Patronus suddenly flashed to five times its size, then reduced to a cloud again instantly. Sparkles reported seeing himself in the cloud for a moment, but that couldn't be correct, could it?

"Neville, what just happened?"

Neville turned to face him, which was eerily accurate for a guy in a blindfold. "I think Everyman found himself a Dementor," he replied. "From the look of it, it was Steve."

"_He is correct, Master,_" Sparkles told him. "_I recognize this as the creature I first saw_."

_Why would Neville's Patronus attack a Dementor without being told?_ "Neville, why did your Patronus attack Steve? And, er, _how_ did your Patronus attack Steve?"

"Everyman is a Boggart," Neville explained. "When a Dementor approaches me with intent to do me harm, my Patronus attacks it, even if I've told it not to - I'm not sure why Steve would turn on us, but that's what happened here."

Harry was impressed. "You've got a Patronus that strikes fear to the heart of Death?"

Neville smiled. "I think it's because of all of Snape's training," he admitted. "Fear has become such a large part of who I am now, and Boggarts only show me what I wish to see... it's interesting."

"Good for a long discussion tomorrow," Harry agreed. "For now, let's try not to get killed by the Basilisk, Black, or whatever else might be down here."

Draco didn't say anything.

"Draco?"

"_I do not sense him here, Master_."

_Crud vapors on a loaf of pumpernickel bread being eaten by a giant with two beards and a table._ "Where did he go?"

"_I know not. His Patronus is not within my awareness, however; either he has dismissed it, or he has put it under your Invisibility Cloak._"

"Neville, I think Draco just got snatched," Harry said, his voice trembling.

"You're probably right," Neville agreed. "Looks like a larger chamber ahead, might be the main section of this place. Should be answers there."

Harry sincerely wished that would be true.

"_-carrying them like cordwood, very difficult not to-" _

"Sparkles, did you hear that?"

_"Yes, Master,"_ Sparkles replied. _"It is heading towards the chamber ahead. I believe it may be the Basilisk, traveling through paths meant only for our kind."_

"Harry?"

"Careful. The Basilisk is probably ahead."

Neville nodded, and - according to Sparkles - put his blindfold on.

"_Wait, didn't he already have it on?_"

_"Yes,"_ Sparkles confirmed. _"He seems to have put it on again, without first having taken it off."_

Neville then put on a second blindfold, on top of the one he was already wearing twice.

"Neville, how do you wear one blindfold twice at the same time?"

"Illusions."

"Ah."

Harry heard someone shouting in the room ahead.

* * *

"You're a miserable _failure_, you maniac!" Draco had been tied up by his feet, his Patronus gone. It looked as though he'd managed to fell a pair of Dementors before that happened, though - by Harry's count, that left two Dementors in the Chamber somewhere else. The ragged shapes in front of him had probably been poisoned by Draco's little viper from the way they were twitching on the stones.

Somebody laughed. It was a maniacal laugh, indeed; Draco's evaluation of his captor was definitely spot on. "Come on then," the as-yet unseen figure _that was probably Sirius Black_ mocked. "I've left you the broken wand, go ahead! Cast a spell!"

"_Serpenso-"_

"_Accio_," cut in the voice. "And now you're Petrified, and I can stop worrying about you. _Put him with the others._"

Harry hurried forward, just in time to see the wind patterns of a large something dragging a small something into an open something. The open something closed.

"_Ahead of you, Master-_"

"_Expellipuer. Porta involare_." Neville grunted as he was flung back into the tunnel, and the wind patterns in the room changed as though something was blocking the passage that Harry had just stepped out of. "_Diffindo_."

Harry felt his goggles fall from his face, a thin stream of blood flowing from the cut he'd just received on his temple.

"Ah, Harry Potter," greeted the scraggly madman in front of him. Harry's first thought was to compare him to Lupin, but where Lupin was shabby from years of wear, this man was unkempt from ten years of not caring. "So good of you to come. I was worried you wouldn't make it - and after I invited you all this way!"

Harry growled. "Sirius Black, I presume?"

"You presume too little," the man told him.

"I-"

Two red blurs materialized from opposite sides of the room, streaking towards the man with impossible fury.

"THIS ONE'S FOR MUM!"

"AND THIS ONE'S FOR RON!"

"AND IF YOU'RE STILL STANDING-"

"WE'VE GOT PLENTY OF OTHER RELATIONS!" howled FredandGeorge, their wands weaving powerful spells of humorous affliction and quick victory.

Black _chuckled_, and his wand flicked twice. A stone under Fred's foot twisted, sending the boy to the ground and fouling his aim - George got a rock to the face. Neither Weasley was out of the fight yet, but they'd both missed with their spells, and George had lost his Airsights.

Harry drew his wand. He wondered why he'd even put it away to begin with.

_"Expelliarmus_," snapped the man in the center of the melee, and Harry's wand flashed away, clattering somewhere in the darkness.

"_Po-"_

_"Stu-"_

Black punched Fred in the kidneys before he could finish casting, then stepped behind him, letting George's well-aimed jet of red light strike his own brother.

"_BLACK!" _

Harry pulled his second tin of itching powder out of his pocket, and threw it at Black.

"_Expelli-"_

_"Protego,_" Black spat, deflecting George's spell. Harry's hurled tin cracked open on the shield of light, spilling itchy powder all around Black. The manic grin got more feverish.

"Itching powder? How_ lovely!_" Another twitch of the wand, and George barely avoided another rock to the face.

Harry started looking for his own wand. _Giant statue of Salazar Slytherin, no, crazed mass murderer, no, dark corner with the smell of mold- jackpot!_

"_Confundus!_"

"_Crucio!"_

"_Rafflesia!_"

"_Vox Ignis!_"

"How about _Luposlipophobia!_"

"Ooh, not bad- _Imperio!_"

Harry found his wand, whirled to face the battle - what had Black used on him? Expelliarmpits? Exellent argus?

"_Raxacoricofallapatorius!_"

"What?"

_Right._ "_Expelliarmus!_" Harry shouted, figuring the expulsion of armaments would probably help even if he hit both of them.

He hit both of them.

Black drew a knife.

"_Expelliarmus_!" Harry cried again. The spell backfired, probably due to his haste and inexperience, throwing his wand back down the nearest passage.

George managed to land a large meringue pie in Black's face. Sadly, it wasn't laced with chloroform.

"_Aaaaaaagh!_"

But in a pinch, cayenne pepper will do.

_Come on, come on, losing my wand had better not be one of those things that happens in threes,_ Harry thought, fearing for George's life as he hunted down his wand again.


	30. Chapter 10: Wrong

Book Two

Being a continued exploration of the differences in Mr. Potter's life pursuant to his understanding victorian flower language at age 11.

Harry Potter, all related characters, and the original Harry Potter narrative are properties of J. K. Rowling.

Chapter 10

Wrong

The sound of battle behind him was fading, and Harry wasn't sure _what_ had happened to Sparkles and Neville. And Everyman, he was pretty sure that was the name of Neville's Boggart Patronus. And, come to think of it, Francis the Boggart.

_Goodness, Neville's a one-man posse_, thought Harry.

He found his wand, sticking out of a small pile of bones. Harry didn't even try to identify the tiny rodent they'd probably once belonged to. He rushed back to the Chamber, _wait, isn't this whole place the Chamber of Secrets?_ He rushed back to the Inner Sanctum, running through his list of useful battle spells.

_Dormire, Locomotor Mortis, er, Dicerenix, Wingardium Leviosa, Infrigia?_ Harry wished, not for the first time, that he'd joined the Dueling Club when he had the chance. Still, it seemed quick thinking and creativity were more important than being able to throw powerful spells. He thought of casting _Infrigia_, on the grounds that it was pretty damp in the Inner Sanctum and he could probably freeze the ground under Black's feet, forcing him to fall.

_No, _Harry decided, _I've never really been good at frost spells, and Black might still stab George if they're both on the ground. _

_There they-_ Blood was dripping from Black's knife, matching several cuts on George's arms and face. Black himself had recovered from his pie-induced blindness, although his eyes were still bloodshot and he couldn't stand still - probably due to the itching powder. Neither wizard had recovered a wand.

Harry scooped up the nearest wand he could find - Blackthorn wood, most likely Draco's - and tossed it to George. Then he tried to hex Black. _"Dormire!" _

_Smelly armchair_, Harry thought as Black snatched the wand from the air. George hadn't noticed it, apparently - _probably bleeding into that eye _- and Black managed to pull up another shield before Harry's sleeping hex could connect.

_What is it with this guy? _Harry couldn't count the number of hexes and charms that had completely failed to stop Black. _It's like he's charmed with good luck or something._

"_Stupefy,"_ intoned Black. A hair-thin red line caught George in the middle of a well-aimed spinning back kick, sending him tumbling to the floor.

_Crud crud crud crud crud crud crackers made with rye crud-_

"Harry," Black said, turning towards said young wizard. "I-"

"_I'm not panicking!_"

Black paused. "How strange," he agreed, a rather confused expression on his _evil murdering_ face.

_What's the counter for a Stunning curse? What do I have that Black hasn't got? Where did Sparkles go?_ "Right," Harry told him, trying to ignore the knocking of his knees. "Not even a little panicked." _Panic panic bo banic banana fanna fo _"so could you just give up and, er, get your mind erased?"

Black stared at him. "_What?_"

"Er, because you, Sirius Black, you, er, murdered a lot of people and then escaped from Azkaban and _betrayed the trust of my only family_ and, er," Harry foundered for a moment, wondering _why_ Black hadn't hexed him or Petrified him or knocked him on the head or something yet. "Er, they'll probably erase your memories of everything up to that so you don't do it again."

Harry was beginning to wonder if the psychotic murderer in front of him, who was probably responsible for Harry having to live with the Dursleys for ten years, had been distracted by a funny pebble or something.

Black chuckled. It wasn't a hearty chuckle, the type with some meat in its soundwaves, like you might expect from a grown man; neither was it a dry raspy chuckle of the sort most often heard from creepy wandsellers and morticians. _Although I've never heard Ollivanders chuckle_, Harry considered. Black's chuckle wasn't even the erratic edge of a madman who's just escaped from torturous imprisonment and was seeking revenge.

"Er, what?"

Black chuckled again. _No, that's right,_ thought Harry. Black's chuckle had a clipped, almost affected quality, such as you might hear from a nervous secretary. It also had just the slightest edge of self-conscious hesitation.

"Erase my mind?" Black muttered to himself. "Erase my _mind_?" He chuckled again.

"Er, are you secretly a teenager somehow?" Harry inquired.

Black laughed out loud at that. A slightly maniacal, high, thin, self-conscious and _eerily familiar_ laugh, like a serial killer or a wizard who has no friends.

"So that's a yes, then," Harry told himself. "But-"

Black was very suddenly much closer. "Not just _any_ teenager," the forty-something man told him. "I think you know who I _really_ am."

Harry wracked his brain, which had already been savaged by the sudden loss of pretty much everyone in the castle and the subsequent terrifying reminder that he and his friends were really very new to the whole _fighting evil_ schtick, for answers. To his surprise it produced a few.

"Come on, Potter, don't disappoint me," Black spat. Quite literally spat - Harry could feel the spray of spittle, and Black was hunched over to stare Harry in the eyes.

_Speaks Parseltongue, expects me to know him, either a famous ghost, of which I know none - _Harry mentally _ticked_ that option from his list of suspects - _or Slytherin's teenage brain somehow locked in Azkaban and then transplanted to Black's body in some nightmarish science experiment gone wrong - _Harry dismissed that as ridiculous, especially considering Salazar had been over a century old when he'd built Hogwarts, and his teenage brain wouldn't know where the Chamber was hidden. Not to mention the sheer logical breakdown at every other point in that hypothesis.

Black was toying with the knife.

"Er, Voldemort?" Harry guessed, on the grounds that Voldemort had probably been the last Parseltongue in Hogwarts and was also out to get him. It didn't really work any better than the Brain of Slytherin idea, since Voldemort wasn't a teenager -

"Tom Marvolo Riddle," Black told him, interrupting Harry's chain of thought. Harry blinked, noticing a slew of flaming letters declaring said Riddle to be the very same person as Voldemort.

"So that's a yes, then," Harry told himself. For the second time. _Don't drop your wand, don't drop your wand, don't drop your wand_ -

"Indeed." Black flicked his wand, and Harry's holly-and-phoenix-feather lifeline flitted from his grasp to the mold-smelling corner again.

_Aagh. _"But then why do you look just like Sirius Black?"

The possessing spirit trapped in a madman's body chuckled, adjusting his grip on Draco's wand. "I'm possessing him," he explained. "And the things we're going to do to _you_, Harry Potter, the oh-so-famous Boy who Lived..." He twirled the wand, and a dot of white-hot _something _clung to the tip of it.

Harry desperately tried to buy himself some time. "How-"

"How did I, a mere seventeen-year-old, control a full-grown wizard? Easy," Riddle told him. "His mind was all but broken already, from a decade of Dementors and betrayal."

"I meant _how are you seventeen_," Harry clarified, already aware of the hideous torment the Dementors had exacted on Black's mind. Harry had _fainted_ from his last memories of his parents - he suspected he could fathom the anguish Black had gone through, reliving the betrayal of his best friend.

Riddle raised Black's eyebrows. "Ah, yes, you 'defeated' my older self." His face conveyed annoyance at that bit of history. "_I_ happen to be a... _copy_ of myself, from my last year here in jolly old Hogwarts."

_A copy? Wait, a possessing magical copy of Voldemort? _Harry panicked again, although he managed not to show it beyond a persistent twitching of his right eye.

"I was trapped in a certain object," Riddle elaborated, still toying with the knife. "Locked away for _decades_, nearly half a _century_, it's a wonder I didn't go mad!" He grinned at Harry, daring him to put that statement to the lie. "But the long wait ended at last when this idiot found me."

"Even so," Harry told him, edging along the wall towards an open passageway, "Black _escaped from Azkaban_. You _can't_ have beaten a man with that kind of willpower." Harry wasn't sure if that was how Azkaban worked. Even so, he was curious, and there were worse ways to _run away as soon as I get to that passageway_.

"Oh, but _see_," Riddle explained. "In my... _vessel_, I had no fear, no pain, no fatigue; I could spend _every moment_ thinking and plotting and honing my will. Against my fine blade of control, Black's rusted iron will was nothing. That prison was _perfect _preparation for my ascension. Here, though," his borrowed body shivered with sensation, "I can _feel_ again." Black's mad visage grinned a murderer's grin at him. "I just wish I'd gotten someone you might hesitate to kill," he foamed, the knife in his left hand eerily more threatening than the wand in his right.

Harry dove for the corridor, all pretense of bravado forgotten. He felt a coldness draw across his shoulder, followed by dribbly warmth. _I've been cut_, thought Harry. _I've been cut and that knife didn't look very sanitary and _"ouch." He landed badly, rolling over his freshly-bleeding shoulder and getting all kinds of nasty grime in the wound. _I really hope Madam Pomfrey is okay. And that I don't die._

Black was already on him, and as it turned out that little splotch of incandescence was _exactly_ as searingly hot as it appeared.

Harry screamed.

Harry also kicked and scratched and bit, but through the pain he couldn't tell if he was hitting Black, the floor, or himself. He was pretty sure he'd been stabbed a few times in non-lethal areas.

_I must have gotten a hit in_, thought Harry. Black had pulled away from him, the molten agony faded from his wand, and was sporting a lovely fresh bruise on his nose. Harry took a moment to check his own condition. _Yep, massive burns on both hands and my chin, and cuts between my fingers,_ he confirmed. "_Aaaaaaahhaaaaghh._"

Black swirled his wand again, this time calling a blob of orgulous darkness to the tip. Harry really wished that that Fred and George hadn't gotten Stunned. And that Draco wasn't Petrified. And that Neville had-

"Hi," said Neville, appearing out of nowhere.

* * *

Black spun so quickly his raging spittle left a trail in the air.

Neville just stood there, wearing a blindfold over his blindfold, and smiling like a person who has just done something terribly clever and knows you're going to see it.

Black swung the knife at Neville's face, where it sheared cleanly through both blindfolds. The inner blindfold fell to the Chamber's floor, drifting gently through the stagnant air. Neville would probably get a dashing scar when that cut healed over.

_"-not as though killing them would be difficult-"_

The outer blindfold was Francis. It whirled, forms accreting and dissolving in a gyre of chaotic motion, then coalesced in shadow and dark cloth. Harry thought for a moment it had become a Dementor.

_TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE?_

_That's not a Dementor,_ Harry realized. Black dropped the knife.

_YOU ARE TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE, ALIAS VOL DE MORT, ARE YOU NOT?_

_That could never be a Dementor._ Riddle spun away from the tall figure, only to find it standing between him and Harry. It was really _very_ thin.

_ONLY I'VE HAD A BUSY DAY,_ the hooded figure... said. It wasn't really _audible_ so much as _instantaneously having already been heard_. The sound, if there had been one, of this very thin fellow's voice was rather like large blocks of granite falling with absolute finality on... something. Something solid and acoustically perfect.

Harry took a few more steps towards the passageway.

"N- n- n- n-" said Riddle, backing towards Neville. Neville readied his wand, staying very carefully out of Riddle's way.

_COME TO THINK OF IT, I WAS SUPPOSED TO COLLECT YOU ABOUT TEN YEARS AGO_.

Black's eyes rolled back, and he slumped to the floor as Neville muttered a soft _dormire_ hex at the back of his head.

_OH WELL_, said _the very tall thin man with a reaping instrument_. _IT WAS FUN WHILE IT LASTED._ Neville stepped forward and plucked a creepy-looking book bound in some kind of pale leather out of the space where Death had just been standing.

"Neville," Harry spoke up, his voice quavering. "Forgive me for asking, but _what was that?_"

Neville shrugged. "Francis."

"Right, then," Harry decided. "I think you're my new favorite thing-I-fear-the-most."

Neville smiled at him.

* * *

"So we've still got a Basilisk to deal with, Fred and George have vanished, and we need to find out where the Basilisk _put_ everyone," Harry reminded Neville.

Neville nodded. "And it would probably help if we found out what was possessing Black, and make it stop," he suggested.

Harry hadn't thought of that. "Er, does it matter? He did kind of try to make me dead either way."

Neville nodded sadly. "But it might be able to possess others," he reminded Harry. "And there's something I can't quite put my finger on."

Harry thought it over while they checked Black for evil artifacts and extra wands. "Say, Neville, where did Sparkles go? And, er, how did you get back into the Chamber?"

Neville smiled again. "I... _asked _one of the Dementors if it knew another path to where Black was," he explained. "Come to think of it, they probably turned on us because Voldemort told them to," he realized. "They always worked for him, back before you came along."

Harry raised his right eyebrow, for variety. "That explains a lot," he realized.

Neville nodded animatedly. "Although that was before I came along, too," he admitted. "As for Sparkles, he headed out to the castle proper, so he could open the Chamber if Dumbledore came back."

"Wait, he can _do _that?"

Neville shrugged. "I guess so."

_Then why- _"Do you think the Basilisk stayed in its chamber because it was afraid of roosters?"

"Well, they do tend to kill it instantly," Neville reminded him. "Hey, look at this." He held up a small hand mirror, which Black had probably used to help the Basilisk Petrify everyone.

Harry took the mirror, looking for inscriptions or evil possessing spirits. As he was checking the back, which had a lovely lion motif, Neville pulled a small book from Black's pocket. He then stopped moving.

"This mirror kind of looks like Seamus' - Neville? Are you alright?"

Neville didn't answer. He was staring at harry's stomach for some reason, which was odd, and he was holding a small black book. Harry chuckled for a moment. _Black's black book - can I fit any more blacks in there? Maybe it's full of blackhearted deeds, all recorded in black and white? _

Harry gave up. "Er, Neville, is that the evil book that possesses people? Have you been possessed?"

"Yes and no," said someone new.

Harry blinked, turning to face the person that had suddenly appeared behind Neville. "Who are you?"

The fastidious-looking young man scowled at him. "Voldemort," he replied.

_What?_ "What? No, Voldemort was..." Harry realized that this particular teenager was _in the Chamber of Secrets_ and probably intended to either possess him or kill him. "You?"

Voldemort glared at him some more. "Your friend there managed to incapacitate my _incredible_ new body," he hissed, "but it matters little. Salazar's Legacy caught him in the very mirror that you now hold."

Harry's eyes widened in horror. He glanced back at Neville, still crouched over Black's sleeping form, then glanced to his left.

He saw a pair of very large, incredibly yellow eyes.

* * *

_Blast,_ thought Harry. _Now I'll have to keep Myrtle company. _He was rather uncomfortable - the moist stones beneath him, though familiar, didn't really match his expectations of the afterlife. _Wait, do I hear voices?_


End file.
